A-WINTER in retirement 

HANNAH B LANEY WASHBURN 


FT MEfiDE 
GenCol 1 


R-ank Allaben 
. GenoaloOical 


4 


v<, V • 






• • r** ^ 



■ V ';■. 'rl'^-y- }''>[■ ''*• *‘'.*tlM»'k;‘!yT'.s. '.••'^-•••: • T^s. 

. • ‘•.■'•' ••.•;•' . -^.'» •■•; ’’.»'r;'‘r’*v^';V = 1.' • ■• '•-' ' ; ^ - *' •• 'S. 

■rU-‘.''.'.'.--'''r 

• ■.•_✓*, -••..• -.^v* s .. i.* - -T . • »•• . • • . 



• .K 5 ■> 

. ^ 'r 




■^? 





-f<r. 







■ V' .-if -A . 

■. • • '■.. \ 'V .'V - 
























"MV" 


^ . 






W 




61 










Mi 


/ 






•'^ -vv> 




V 


■,•• ••.. •, • ■-^"*, '' • ■• ■ ■• 


X;/ 1 f; 








.-■Sik 




; 4 V;e: 












1^‘ 






'r% 


• / t* • * ,t - ^ ; . • . • jfw . V • ••■>».•- ^ . 

’ . -■ ' '•■’ ' • ■ ■ ;>‘-‘ .-. )’c.i ■’''iV:>^“^V, • • • .-^•V,'.-*''’ •-.'- •.•■'■■■'.,•■ *;•• A •. ;:'.i\ ■ ■.- 

■ ■ ii::: . • •' :-:A.\r^,:--. . ■->. 1 - . 


'■ ■'/<•, 


»• y-/.>['< AJ.'* - 

ftSii ' 




ft-r; 






4«; 




^•Ait 


iii 




V ■ ■■•■ ■’’‘'■- ■ ■■ '^^- 4 ■' • ■ A--A- jyy'--- ''AyAyy- . '" 

:■ :::f ■ gMigjyyy: yy . ^ ,, ^ ■ . A ' ' ■;- v:^ :A^yAAy ■- .:.- 


■■■ 






W', 


U’-> 


■-fK'.r 


•s 






•j.' * w 


-.>• 




-/r 


-w 




X, 


St 


?-A 




p:y< 


A* 




'<•-1 




' • *'.■?. I »..'; ' -•■ ; ' 

yyyy'y-:'. ■ 

WAbAA: r - y V 


ii'. 






rW- 


^1 


* V » • %/, • ■ » 

T'-t.':’'.#-/' • 




■|'\4 




‘ -i ;»':' •- ••■ . ..W ' ■ 






'??rv 






'^»v 


■4' 




;vj' 


■vill 






;irr; 


t>5»' 


.*y-- 


' > ■; 




W 
























it'/ 


-w*<-. 


mym 




I. 












.'A‘; 
















'.Aj 






. Vi«!T 




L^>i‘ 






fc'f 




-/jei 




AjV'^r;/. 






■ */■? 




.CS 


‘A 


















wv 




.^•%- 

•ik. ».* > 


*>.. X 




*>> 






r*.>t‘.> 








k*' .4. 




::K 


■^ry. 


jv* 


V 


V .' -yil 






tfe-t 


•.A';' 




i^'e 










' ^ 


^Ai.yS, 


m 


U't- 










» si 


L-^' 






^N. 


-•r^' 


■' r' 


> -mV 








•Vj 




'V? 




/- 




.‘I'T 


>• >-. •:> 


4?'%t 






















r f '4 


j5' 




fU. 




%y 


myyi^m 








► 5 






‘ A 

>•.•. ^iT i 


-VH". 




i-^- 




>;>» •4--i 


•%< 






fi\^: 






m 


f/ 


ft? 


>.>, 






\ 


v?< 






X 






..'i/'A 


:<yAi 






■.•v- 


\. 


i 


JjfT , 


V* 




V 




. X. » *j 









A Winter ttt 


®r 

^rattfrp& iCfaupa 

l^annal; Hlamg HaB^burn 
11 



JTrank Allaton (^fttfalogtral ffiompaag 
3fortg-^w0nb ^mlMng, Hm fork 


?Z-3 

■ Msj 


Copyright, 1914 , by Frank Allaben Genealogical Company 



DEC 14 IS(4 

©CI.A387947 

/ 


PREFACE 


The scene of this little sketch is laid in one of the' most delight- 
ful of our sea-coast residences, as it respects local situation; one 
of the earliest settlements of New England, and the birthplace of 
many individuals, whose memory, though perhaps unknown to 
fame, is cherished by their descendants to the third and fourth 
generation. With the hope that it may be received with favor, 
and do good, the writer, who is herself a native of Lynn, offers it 
to the public. H. B. W. 


\ 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 

OR 

SCATTERED LEAVES 


Chapter I 

A home on Ocean’s sounding shore 
Would be the home for me, 

Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar, 

’Tis the music of the Sea. 

There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who 
were born upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat 
and sunshine of a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness 
and refreshment in the breezes which float over its waters never 
to be forgotten by the wanderer from his native home, and even 
the hollow murmuring of its waves, when presaging an approach- 
ing storm, and their wild roar when the tempest is abroad in its 
fury, is remembered with a sort of pleasure as being the lullaby 
for many a calm and sound night’s sleep. In sickness, when far 
away from the land of his birth, the exile will remember its pure 
and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps, fancy him- 
self treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air upon 
his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the loca- 
tion of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as 
long as memory remains. 

“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the 
winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary 
season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no so- 
ciety, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse 
us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, 
the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, 
and not a man to be seen but old Philip” — and here the voice of the 
speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon 
soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister. 

“Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, 
“you forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love that 


6 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


orchard, how many merry plays we have had among those trees, 
and how many stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beau- 
tiful shells we picked up upon the little beach, at the foot of the 
rocks,” — “But that was in the summer, Mary, when you know it 
is pleasant out doors, and that was when we were so young, and 
so easily amused, but now it is so very different, and then Aunt 
Wilson is so very, very pious — Oh ; she will not let us read any- 
thing but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.” 

This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of 
seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton pos- 
sessed to view it with indifference. The illness of their father, 
the necessity of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, 
and his wish that his wife should accompany him, were the rea- 
sons which had induced him to trust his daughters, during his ab- 
sence, to the care of his sister, a widow lady of much respecta- 
bility, who resided near the sea-coast, and, who, since the death of 
her husband, had devoted her time and talents to the education of 
her children, two sons and a daughter ; and, it was after bidding a 
sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding themselves shut up 
in the carriage, which was to convey them to their winter home, 
that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest of 
the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society, and 
always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed 
many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter 
after she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dis- 
persed by the gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she 
had listened to the arrangement which had consigned her to the 
care of her aunt through that season which she had anticipated 
with so much delight with a dissatisfaction and gloom, which pre- 
vented her from seeing anything pleasant in their winter abode, or 
seizing upon any circumstances to soften her disappointment. Not 
so with Mary ; with as lively a disposition as her sister, she still 
possessed the happy talent of extracting pleasure from any situ- 
ation, and enjoying herself under almost any circumstances, and 
now endeavored, with earnest kindness, to bring to her remem- 
brance many little events of their early youth, connected with their 
aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring her tranquility, 
and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their destined home, 
Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant recol- 
lection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before 
they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing 
of the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly 
air, and the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the 
bright light, which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling 
of their aunt. The carriage now turned into the lane which led 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


7 


to the house, and they were greeted at the porch by the kind old 
Philip, whose hair seemed not a shade whiter, nor his face a 
whit more wrinkled than when, five years before, two lively little 
girls, they bade him ‘‘good-bye,” at that very door. They had 
hardly time to return his good humored smile, when they were 
surrounded by the rest of the family, and the affectionate caresses 
of their aunt, the joyous welcome of their cousins, and even the 
broad smile which displayed the white teeth of black Phoebe, 
made them feel that they had, indeed, as Philip said, “Got home 
again,” and caused Susan to forget her sad forebodings. The 
transition from the cold darkness of the evening without to the 
pleasant warmth and cheerful light of the sitting room was de- 
lightful, and, in a short time Susan found herself seated among 
a circle of lovely and beloved friends, all striving to make her 
happy, and all happy together, and, when, after an evening of the 
most charming sociability, she found herself alone with her sister, 
she acknowledged that she was never more entertained than she 
was this evening. 

A bright and pleasant morning sun after a night of uninter- 
rupted and tranquil repose, rendered sweet by the fatigue of the 
preceding day, restored all the gay cheerfulness of Susan, and she 
received the kind greetings of her friends, and their affectionate 
inquiries, with all her wonted good humor. A livelier party never 
surrounded a breakfast table, from the mother to the youngest 
of Mrs. Wilson’s children, the light-hearted Charles, a sprightly, 
intelligent boy of thirteen. Her eldest, a son, a member of the 
University, had returned to his home to spend the winter vaca- 
tion. Herbert Wilson was a noble specimen of the youth of New 
England, active and enterprising, uniting to a fine constitution, 
habits of industry and order, and already ranking high among the 
talented sons of his native State. Elizabeth, the daughter, was 
the counterpart, in disposition, of her cousin Mary; she was the 
friend and companion of her mother, and the loving counsellor of 
her brothers. The clouds of the preceding evening had dispersed ; 
it was one of those delightful days which sometimes occur in No- 
vember ; a walk was proposed to the sea-shore, and with light and 
, happy hearts, the young party, after crossing the brow of the 
hill, which separated them from the ocean, beheld its vast ex- 
panse stretched before them in boundless majesty. The sands, 
covered with shells, sparkled in the sunbeams ; far off, in the dis- 
tance, were seen the white sails of ships, some leaving their native 
shores, and some returning to them, and, in the southwest, rose 
the dome of the State House and many spires of Boston, from 
whence, on a clear morning, might be heard the cheerful sound 
of bells. On the smooth beach that united the shore with the 


8 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


beautiful peninsula of Nahant, were seen sportsmen with their 
guns, in pursuit of the wild fowl, which were wheeling in hurried 
circles above their heads, and, here and there, a fishing boat, lying 
upon the surface of the water, while its owner was engaged in his 
customary employment of fishing. “How delightful,” said Susan, 
“I could not have believed it would have been so pleasant here in 
November. I think I shall be quite contented here, after all.” 
“But reflect, my cousin,” said Herbert, “this is one of our days of 
sunshine, what will you say in the days of storm and tempest, 
when the waves dash against these rugged rocks, and the rain 
pours in torrents or snow darkens the atmosphere ?” “Oh,” said the 
listening Charles, “you would not be discontented then, for, you 
know, the days are short, and soon pass away, and the evenings 
are so pleasant. Oh, cousin Susan ! you don’t know anything 
about those winter evenings.” “Do tell me about them, Charlie, 
do tell me,” said the lively Susan. “Well, then, Herbert reads” — 
“Stop, stop, my little man,” said Herbert, “do not let Susan waste 
all her pleasure in anticipation, but, I hope, dear cousin of mine, 
to convince you that our happiness is not dependent upon the 
weather, or upon local situation, and, that, years hence, perhaps, 
on some bright day, in the most delightful season of the year, or, 
when surrounded, it may be with everything to make your life 
happy, you will look back to this winter in retirement as one of 
the bright spots in your existence.” “I am half inclined to believe 
you, dear Herbert, but we will walk faster, for I think Mary and 
Elizabeth have found a prize.” Charles now bounded over the 
sands, and, upon joining his sister and cousin, found them en- 
gaged in examining a shell fish of singular construction. “Why, 
it is nothing but a horseshoe,” said he. “Uncle Bill says they call 
them so because they look like one, and, look, Herbert, there is 
Uncle Bill himself, with a basket of clams. Hurrah ! Uncle Bill, 
what will you do with your clams?” He then ran to join a man 
who was coming from the edge of the water, where he had been 
employed in procurring the contents of his basket. He was slight- 
ly built, of a florid complexion, and a mild sensible countenance, 
but a certain wandering and restless expression indicated an un- 
settled mind. As Herbert greeted him kindly his eyes lighted with 
animation, and his respectful salute to the young ladies had an 
air of good breeding, unusual in a person in his apparent condi- 
tion of life. To the repeated question of Charles as to what he 
would do with his clams, he said he would carry some to Phoebe, 
that she might make him a chowder. “That is the very thing. 
Uncle Bill ; hurrah for clam chowder, and Til go forward and 
tell her,” said Charles, and he ran on, followed more slowly bv 
Uncle Bill. “There is something singular in the appearance of 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


9 


that man,” said Mary. “There is something singular in his his- 
tory,” said Herbert. “Sometime, on one of those stormy days of 
which I have forewarned Susan, I will tell you the outlines of it.” 
“Oh, no outlines,” said Susan, “tell me all the particulars, all the 
little shades of the story. I do not like rough sketches, I have not 
imagination enough to fill them up.” “I will tell you all I my- 
self know of his life,” said Herbert, “and it is an illustration of the 
caprice and coquetry of which some of your sex are accused.” 
“A love story ; that will be grand,” said Susan, “only it is a pity 
that the hero is an old clam merchant.” 

A cheerful walk returned them to their home, where each re- 
sorted to their usual avocations, Herbert to pursue his studies and 
instruct Charles, Elizabeth to attend to and learn the necessary 
duties of a housewife, and during their morning walk she had 
contrived to inspire Mary with a desire to emulate her in becom- 
ing a complete cook and housekeeper, and thus give her kind 
mother an agreeable surprise on her return. Susan, also, was 
forming many plans for her winter pursuits, among which, one 
was commencing the study of Latin, under the instruction of Her- 
bert, and another of working, in worsted, a cover for a family 
Bible, with the names of her parents wrought upon it, in imita- 
tion of the one which laid upon her aunt’s table, and which she 
thought would please her father and mother. Thus the day 
passed, and when the family surrounded the tea table, health and 
cheerfulness glowed in every countenance, and Susan forgot 
every cause of discontent. After the tea things were removed. 
“Now,” said Charles, “now for the story, Herbert.” “What,” 
said Susan, “about Uncle Bill?” “No, no, not now,” said Charles, 
a story about Rome, in the time of the early Christians. I am 
studying the history of Rome in Latin, and Herbert promised he 
would read a story about it.” “In that case, Charles,” said Mrs. 
Wilson, “you will be able to detect any deviations from the truth 
of history.” “But, may I speak, mother, when I think I find any- 
thing that is not true?” “There will be times, my dear, when 
Herbert will pause awhile, and then you can make your remarks.” 
“There is a peculiar charm,” said Herbert, “in retracing the rec- 
ords of antiquity, for we lose sight, in the distance, of all rough- 
ness and inequalities, and our imagination only rests upon the 
smooth and distant perspective. I remember journeying with my 
father, many years ago, through the northern part of this State, 
and when I remarked to him that the hills which we saw around 
us looked as if they were highly cultivated, their surface appear- 
ing so even and delightful, here and there dotted with clumps of 
trees, he repeated the words of the poet, ' ’Tis distance lends en- 
chantment to the view.’ Tf, my son, you were there, upon those 


lO 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


very spots that appear so pleasant, you would be disappointed by 
their rugged and uneven appearance, perhaps deformed with un- 
sightly stumps, or with patches of rock,’ ” “So it is with the ro- 
mance of history,” said Elizabeth, “but, if we are too critical in 
our remarks, we should lose much pleasure.” “True,” said Her- 
bert, “and therefore, not to spoil the appetite of Charles for our 
little tale, we will not proceed with our illustrations.” Herbert 
produced his manuscript, the little circle arranged themselves at 
their different employments, and silence ensued, while in a clear 
voice he commenced reading a tale of which the scene was laid in 
the days of Nero, the tyrant of Rome, and the malignant persecu- 
tor of the Christians. 


Chapter II 


Proud, imperial Rome! 

The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor, 
Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight 
revels. 

The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred 
Christians, 

And the triumphalt Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the 
victor. 

Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs, 

All alike have felt the blighting pressure. 

It was on a bright and beautiful evening, just as the delightful 
sun of Italy was declining, that Cleone, a young Roman maiden, 
walked with her mother along the pleasant banks of the Tiber. 
They had chosen a retired walk for many reasons, one of which 
was that retirement better suited their dispositions, and another 
that Rome was, at that time, filled with a dissolute nobility, whose 
wills were almost their only law. Cleone and her mother were de- 
scendants of ancient and noble families, who had counted amongst 
their numbers grave and influential senators, warlike and vic- 
torious soldiers, and even mingled their blood with the powerful 
kings and dictators of Rome; but time, with its changing scenes, 
had reduced them in power and wealth, though oppression and 
poverty had not taken from them the proud consciousness of for- 
mer greatness. ‘‘My daughter,” said the matron, “look at that 
glorious sun, though declining, though its splendor will shortly 
be obscured, yet it will rise again, with renewed and more brilliant 
light, and shed joy and happiness with its glad beams. So, dearest, 
shall the sun of our fortunes, though now almost disappearing, 
again rise, and the virtues of our own Curtius pour light and 
warmth on all within their influence. Believe this, my own 
Cleone, and let the thought disperse those clouds of melancholy, 
believe that your mother is a prophetess, and this time of good.” 
“Mother,” said Cleone, “I will try to have faith in your augury, 
but my brother is in a prison, in the power of a tyrant ; how can 
we hope?” “He is under the protecting power of that Being in 
whom we trust, who has comforted us in affliction, and pre- 
served us in danger, and who will not now forsake us. He, whose 
power can melt the flinty rock, can soften even the hard heart of 


12 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


a Nero. Do you remember, Cleone, the deathbed of your father, 
when, laying his hand on the youthful head of our Curtius, after 
commending us to his love and protection, he blessed him in the 
name of the only living and true God. ‘Even,’ said he, ‘though 
called to the death of a martyr, let him never forsake the God of 
his father.’ The prayer of the dying saint has been heard; midst 
temptations, in the view of danger and death the undaunted youth 
has never been shaken in his fidelity to his God, and by his noble 
courage has forced even the haughty tyrant and his minions to 
respect.” “Oh, that I could restore him to you, dear mother. 
Last night I woke from disturbed slumber ; the bright beams of 
the moon rested upon my couch, all was calm and still, the very 
air breathed peace, but the thought of my darling brother, shut 
out from all this loveliness, and exposed to the unwholesome 
damps of a dungeon, weighed heavy upon my mind. I threw 
myself upon my knees, I prayed God that he would save him 
from the cruel Emperor. Oh, mother, I did not again lie down 
until peace and comfort entered my mind, and I felt that if he 
lived or died, I could say, ‘Thy Holy will be done,’ but mother, I 
cannot always say so.” Thus communing they had arrived at a 
lovely spot, surrounded by trees whose luxuriant foliage almost 
touched the ground. Here they seated themselves upon the bank ; 
the beautiful appearance of the river, as the bright sky was re- 
flected upon the waters, the songs of the birds over their heads, 
the buzzing of innumerable insects, and the hum of the city, soft- 
ened by distance, tranquillized their minds. “My Cleone, join 
your voice to this chorus, and sing our evening hymn.” Obedient 
to her mother’s wish, she sang, with sweet melody, the simple 
strain : 


The shades of night are closing o’er us, 

God of Heaven, watch our sleep! 

For the sake of the Lord Jesus 
Wilt thou still thy servants keep? 

Lord ! though dangers may surround us, 

We are safe beneath thy care. 

Thy blest angels may attend us ; 

Holy Father, bow thine ear ! 

As the low, sweet voice of Cleone died upon the air, a slight 
rustling of the bushes startled them and, turning quickly, they 
beheld a woman whose fixed and earnest gaze was riveted upon 
them. Leaning upon a staff, enveloped in a dark gray mantle, 
the hood of which covered her head, she appeared lost in thought. 
Her grey locks and the deep furrows of her face betokened ex- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


13 


treme age, while her eyes, black, deep-set and piercing, showed 
that her mind still retained its powers. Her attention seemed 
fixed upon Cleone, whose countenance expressed terror at her 
unexpected appearance. “Lady,” said she, and her deep and 
hollow voice sounded as from the tomb, “do not fear ; your voice 
has awakened feelings which I thought long since dead. Years 
of sin and misery seemed like a dream as I listened, and a youth 
of innocence and love was present to my thought. Thanks, 
maiden, for the momentary trance. Scion of the noble house of 
Curiatii, a dark cloud hangs heavy over your fortunes; He in 
whom you trust can disperse it. The gray moss waves on the 
lofty towers of the Atili, but their stones are yet firm and un- 
broken ; the stately pine is decaying, but the young sapling is yet 
vigorous, and its shoots will press upward, the lamp of life glim- 
mers but faintly in the breast of the aged, and will soon be ex- 
tinguished, yet a bright spark remains in the young and noble to 
rekindle the ancient blaze. Lady, hearken to the prophecy of one 
who, though sinful and despairing, forgets not the remnant of the 
illustrious house that reared her childhood.” “You are unhappy, 
mother,” said the matron in the soothing tone of kindness, “but 
you must not say despairing. He who has offered up his life 
for us, who has borne our sins upon the cross, has left us the 
blessed assurance that all who repent need not despair.” “Aye,” 
said the Sybil, while a strong shudder shook her frame, “you 
are a Christian ; enough,” and her eyes gleamed with almost ter- 
rific wildness; “away,” and, waving her hand, she disappeared 
among the trees. A moment of deep silence succeeded her de- 
parture, which was broken by Cleone. “Is not this frightful, 
mother? Who can this women be? and does she mean us good 
or evil?” “Her words would seem to imply good to us, my 
daughter, but dark and, I fear, unrepented wickedness burthens 
her mind, benighted indeed, if without the cheering ray of hope. 
Who she is I know not ; tradition tells of those who have leagued 
themselves with the powers of darkness, but there was kindness 
in her words ; let us think of her no more, my dearest, but quickly 
retrace our steps. We have already left our kind uncle too long.” 
“Ah, we will not linger, dear mother, he is so feeble.” The twi- 
light deepened around them as they bent their way to their home, 
but the moon was rising in unclouded splendor and its mild beams 
diffused a brilliancy around the landscape more beautiful than 
that of day. “How many, my Cleone, have listened to the mur- 
mur of these waves and watched the reflection of these moon- 
beams ; how many noble and gifted beings whom we have been 
taught to love and admire, have, perhaps upon this very spot, 
gazed upon this same lovely scene. This same quiet and spark- 


14 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


ling sky has shone upon the form of many a noble Roman whose 
heart was devoted to his country. Time moves on in his never- 
resting course and, centuries hence, my daughter, this river will 
roll on, as it now does, this sky sparkle with the same brilliancy, 
and beings, within whose forms the current of life flows as 
warmly as it now does in ours, will watch the unceasing motion 
of this stream and admure this pure and lovely firmament as 
we do.” 

The family of the Curiatii, once powerful in Rome, was now 
represented by the young Quintius Curtius and his sister; civil 
wars and oppressions had reduced their numbers and torn from 
them their possessions and these, the last of an illustrious race, 
were even dependent upon the charity of an almost superannu- 
ated old man, the uncle of his mother. Their father, while serv- 
ing in the Roman bands in Judea, had become a convert to 
Christianity and, while his children were yet young, had died in 
the full faith of the Christian’s hope, bequeathing them, as he be- 
lieved, a rich legacy, in commending them to that Being who has 
said: ‘‘Leave thy fatherless children to me,” and, with a firm 
confidence that their mother would educate them in the “nurture 
and admonition of the Lord.” Most faithfully had that tender 
mother redeemed her pledge to her dying husband, and, with a 
noble fortitude, she had endured every privation and cheerfully 
made every sacrifice for the eternal welfare of those beloved 
children, and with that joy which only the Christian parent can 
feel, she had seen them, while growing in their loveliness, devot- 
ing themselves to the service of the God of their father. Who 
has not shuddered at the atrocious cruelties of the reign of Nero? 
The wicked tyrant, whose greatest happiness seemed to consist 
in causing the misery of his fellow-beings, and where is the heart 
that has not beat in sympathy with the sufferings of those 
Christian martyrs, who, with a firm and unshaken constancy, en- 
dured the torments inflicted by that monster in human form, 
even until death, rather than deny the “Lord who bought them.” 
Educated in retirement, the young Curtius had for some time 
escaped notice, but as he grew in years and, through the influ- 
ence of friends, had been introduced into public life, he was no 
longer shielded by obscurity. In his noble countenance was por- 
trayed his high and commanding talents and vice and wickedness 
shrank abashed from the quick glance of his eye. Is it, then, to 
be wondered that he became an object of dislike to the infamous 
emperor and that the cruel tyrant sought an excuse to gratifv his 
feelings of hatred, for, without an excuse, even Nero dared not 
attack the virtuous young Roman who was equally the object of 
love and admiration. That excuse was not long wanting, for 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


15 


the undaunted youth feared not to confess Christ before men, 
and that alone was crime of the deepest dye in the Pagan court of 
Nero. Summoned before the emperor, his firm yet respectful 
deportment and calm and decided answers commanded the ad- 
miration of all, even of the tyrant himself, who, with the strange 
inconsistency of his character, could even admire and applaud 
where he hated and had determined to destroy. But it would be 
greater matter of triumphs to Nero to induce the high-souled 
Curtius to renounce his religion than to take his life and, there- 
fore. summoning to his aid those bland and persuasive manners 
he could so well assume, he, during many interviews, attempted 
to sap the foundation of that virtue, which was based upon a 
principle, enduring as eternity, till, finding every effort ineffect- 
ual, his rage knew no bounds, and the young Christian was close- 
ly confined, debarred from the sight of his mother and sister, and 
only respited until the imperial ruffian had contrived new modes 
of torture to enhance the bitterness of death. But, although cast 
into the dreariest dungeon, and apparently deprived of every com- 
fort, this son of a sainted father was not only resigned to his fate, 
but even triumphant in the thoughts of martyrdom, and, though 
deprived of the sight of those friends so dear to his heart, felt a 
sweet serenity in the conviction that he was the object of their fer- 
vent prayers and fondest solicitude. Who can estimate the un- 
speakable consolation he derived from the invisible presence of 
that Saviour who has promised, “I will never leave you comfort- 
less,” who has said, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let 
it be afraid.” 

“You will read more, you will not leave off yet, Herbert,” said 
Charles. “Our time is expended,” said Herbert, “and, in order to 
enjoy pleasure, we must not prolong it until it becomes weari- 
some.” “Wearisome !” said Susan, “we should not even think of 
the idea.” “I could almost wish,” said Elizabeth, “to have been 
one of the first Christians, even amidst all their dangers. Such 
firm confidence, such joyful hope, and holy love would seem 
cheaply gained by all their suffering.” “I almost believe,” said 
Mary, “that placed in their situation, I, too, could have risen 
above fear; that I could almost rejoice to die in such a cause.” 
“Their situation was indeed peculiar,” said Mrs. Wilson. “The 
power of God was with them and supported them. He was their 
refuge and strength, their present help, therefore they did not 
fear. Left to our own weakness we are as nothing, supported by 
his mighty arm, we are powerful, invincible.” “My curiosity,” 
said Susan, “is much excited by the old woman, and I shall like to 
find out who she is.” “You called her a Sybil, Herbert,” said 


i6 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Charles. “There is a story in my History of Rome of a woman 
who went to one of the kings to sell some mysterious books, 
which he refused to purchase. She went away and burned some, 
then came back and asked the same price for those remaining, 
and continued to do so till she had burned a good many, and, at 
last, the king bought those that were left, and they were con- 
sidered of so much value that officers were appointed to take 
care of them and they were consulted upon all important mat- 
ters.” “You are right, Charles,” said Herbert, “there is such a 
relation, and perhaps we may class this amongst the romance of 
history. Time and the mists of tradition have rendered it im- 
possible to learn how much truth is connected with these fables, 
but we know that in the ancient days of Rome, much reliance was 
placed upon those who pretended to a knowledge of future events, 
and, perhaps, the general belief in such knowledge induced many 
of wild imaginations to believe themselves endowed with this 
prophetic spirit. You may suppose, Susan, if you wish, to break 
the illusions of fancy that this ancient female was one of those 
fanatical beings, who had cheated herself into the belief that she 
was set apart as one of those mystical oracles.” “Oh, no,” said 
Susan, “do not break any illusions; I am very willing to believe 
that she was the identical Sybil, who offered those books to the 
refractory king.” “Your imagination, dear cousin,” said he, “has 
indeed taken a wide circuit, and we will let the curtain of mystery 
be spread, for the present, over the story.” 


Chapter III 


There is a spot, dearer than all beside ; 

A spot where all the joys of life abide; 

Where sweet affections cluster round the heart, 

Where peace and love their purest hopes impart ; 

That spot is Home — 

Call you this Death? ’Tis Life, immortal Life. 

The duties of the succeeding day were not neglected, though 
even the short day seemed longer in anticipation of the evening 
employments. Cowper has given a delightful description of the 
“ushering in” of a winter evening with all its pleasant accompani- 
ments, and the truth of his lively picture was fully realized as the 
happy group collected around the sparkling fire. As Herbert 
continued the tale which had so interested them all listened with 
attention. 

“The tender, mother and much loved sister had arrived at the 
home now rendered solitary by the absence of the son and 
brother, whose love had sweetened every passing hour. As they 
approached the mansion of their aged relative, upon whose an- 
cient towers the moon now cast a silvery brightness, and had 
ascended the eminence upon which it was situated, they stood for 
a moment to contemplate the scene before them. There lay the 
proud and magnificent city, its domes and palaces reflecting the 
soft brightness, and, here, the waves of the Tiber rolled at their 
feet, its winding course lost in the distance. On their right 
hand and strongly defined by the light, towered the imperial 
palace where abode the haughty arbiter of the fate of their Cur- 
tius, and, on their left stretched that Amphitheatre, the scene of 
the most horrid cruelties, drenched with the blood of martyred 
victims and strewn with their ashes. One thought seemed to 
possess their minds, one terrible reflection to agitate their bosoms, 
as they turned, shuddering, from this last prospect and bent their 
steps toward their dwelling. 

“In a spacious but low apartment, bearing marks of ancient 
magnificence, but lighted by only a solitary lamp, lay reclined 
upon a couch the kind but feeble old man, so long their protector 
and sole friend, but now sinking by age and sorrow, for he had 
seen many endeared to him by the most sacred associations suf- 


i8 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


fering cruel tortures and an ignominious death for Christ’s sake, 
and amongst them the holy apostle Paul, from whose lips he had 
first heard the truth proclaimed, “as it is in Jesus.” This stroke 
had bowed him to the earth, and, although bending in submis- 
sion to the will of his Maker, his frame had yielded and he was 
fast hastening to his rest. The untiring watchfulness of faithful 
love hovered around him, smoothed his pillow and delighted in 
presenting to his rapt attention the joys of heaven. The walls 
of that apartment, which had formerly echoed with mirth and 
revelry, with the heavy tramp of the warrior preparing for bat- 
tle against the enemies of Rome, or with the commanding voice 
of the Dictator, issuing mandates to his subjects, now gave back 
but the heavy breathing of one of the last of their descendants, a 
feeble old man, but in whose exhausted body dwelt a spark of 
ethereal fire unknown to them with all their boasted power and 
splendor. This feeble old man was a Christian. Near him sat 
a faithful domestic, watching over him in the absence of her 
mistress with earnest solicitude. As the matron entered the room 
and bent over him with anxious love, he raised his eyes and a 
smile of affection passed over his features. ‘Welcome, dearest 
daughter,” said he. T am weary of your absence ; time passes 
heavily when I do not see those forms so dear to my heart. 
Where is Cleone?’ ‘Here, dearest father. You are not worse, I 
trust. Here is your own Cleone.’ ‘Ah, sweet child, those tones 
would almost recall me to life, were it indeed deserting this time- 
worn body ; but why do I not see my Curtius ? Why is he so 
long absent? Speak, Octavia; say, Cleone, where is Curtius?’ 
A look of deep distress shaded their countenances, for with sedu- 
lous care they had concealed from him the situation of that dar- 
ling boy who had been, from his earliest youth, the delight of his 
heart. “Think not, dear father, that, though absent, he forgets 
you. Oh, no ; his messages are full of love and fond remem.- 
brance and we will pray that the Lord will restore him to us in 
his own good time.’ ‘May the blessing of his father’s God rest upon 
him and you, dear children. Ah,’ said he, partly addressing those 
around him and partly uttering his own thoughts, ‘I could almost 
wish that I might live, if it were the will of God, to witness his 
bright career of glory, dispensing happiness and prosperity over 
our country and turning the hearts of the people from the wor- 
ship of their heathen deities to that of the true God. Say, dear 
daughter, may we not believe that those ties which unite us on 
earth will continue in heaven, nay, even grow stronger through 
eternity?’ ‘Father, I cannot doubt it; it is the consoling hope of 
the Christian.’ ‘Aye, I shall there meet your father, my Cleone : 
perhaps we shall be permitted to watch over those so beloved 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


19 


Upon earth.’ ‘Oh, father!’ said Cleone, ‘would that we might 
all go together.’ ‘Not so, dearest, you have yet much, I trust, 
to do in this world.’ He lay silent for some time, apparently in 
deep meditation; then, raising himself upon his couch and clasp- 
ing his trembling hands, he said : ‘How long, O Lord, holy and 
just, shall this fair land be polluted by these abominations? The 
blood of thy servants has been poured out like water ; grant, O 
Father, that it may call to Thee from the ground, not for 
vengeance, but for mercy upon the murderers ! And the time 
will come,’ said he, his whole countenance glowing with the ani- 
mation of youth, ‘the time is not far distant when Rome in her 
splendor shall bow before the cross of Jesus; when her haughty 
Emperors shall prostrate themselves before the Christian’s God, 
and her temples, now blazing with golden honors to Pagan divin- 
ities, shall echo with prayers and thanksgivings to the God of 
the whole earth.’ And he fell back upon his pillow, overpowered 
by the exulting emotions of his mind, a glow of triumphant joy 
still rested upon his features and even retained its station there 
after the heart, which had exulted in this vision of futurity, had 
ceased to beat and the tongue which had uttered the inspiring 
prophecy had become mute in death; for, even as the fervent 
‘Amen’ lingered upon the lips of those around him, the spirit left 
its decayed tenement and returned to God who gave it.” 

Herbert ceased reading and a solemn stillness prevailed for a 
few moments, when he repeated the following lines. 

Through death’s dark and shadowy valley 
He, the Lord, shall be thy guide; 

He, thy Saviour, true and holy 
Christians shall with thee abide; 

Light shall break upon the darkness, 

Strength from Him thy steps sustain, 

Mighty power support they weakness, 

Joy and hope remove all pain. 

Hark! what strains of rapturous pleasure 
Greet thee from they home above; 

Christian, blessings without measure 
Wait thee in that world of love. 

“There is more time, yet, dear brother,” said Charles, and Her- 
bert continued : 

“In a splendid apartment, adorned with all the luxury of luxur- 
ious Rome, and showing, by its magnificence, that it was the abode 


20 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


J 


of a patrician of the first order, was seated at a table a Roman 
citizen, evidently of high rank. Rich wines were before him, and 
many and deep were his libations while engaged in earnest con- 
versation with a young noble, who was walking the apartment 
with an anxious hurried step. “Nay, my Flavius,” said the one 
who was seated, “you are too zealous in this matter. I marvel 
much at the change in your appearance ; but a short time ago you 
were the life of our society; but now, by Bacchus, how you are 
altered; even this sparkling Falernian tempts you not, and your 
wit and brilliancy, which was the zest of our pleasure, is all van- 
ished. Come, my friend, throw aside this gloom, I pray you, and, 
as for the young Curtius, we will see what can be done, we will 
see. He deserves punishment for adhering to his gloomy doc- 
trine, though, for your sake, we will see what can be effected. 
Still, it is a labor of Hercules to attempt to change the purposes 
of our mighty Emperor when he has the pleasure of torturing one 
of these obtinate Christians in view.” “Do not talk of delay, noble 
Galba,” said the young man, “after witnessing the last scene be- 
tween the Emperor and Curtius, are you not convinced no time is 
to be lost? Preparations are even now making for some exhi- 
bition on the morrow, and, I fear me, this heroic youth is to be 
the principal actor in a most cruel tragedy. Servius, you have 
much influence over this cruel Nero, will you not exert it to save 
this last descendant of an illustrious house? Will not our cheeks 
crimson with shame when we look upon those palaces, reared by 
his ancestors, when we pass the memorable spot, where the first 
Curtius devoted himself to his country? If we suffer this scion 
from such a glorious stock to perish thus? And, for what? 
Powers of heaven ! Why has he not the same right to worship his 
God, as we have to bend before the shrine of Jupiter or Bacchus? 
He is a Roman citizen, and shielded by that name should be 
guarded by the laws of Rome, for he has committed no crime.” 
“No crime ! Flavius, by the immortal Gods, you are beside your- 
self. It is well there is no one present to bear this report to Nero. 
Your life, my friend, were not worth a straw. No crime, did you 
say, to condemn our Deities ? Speak lower, I pray you, our walls 
are not thick enough to conceal such a monstrous sentiment.” 
“Nay, Galba, this is trifling,” and a shade of deep vexation passed 
over the fine features of Flavius. “Will you use your power 
over the Emperor to save my friend, or have I overrated your 
friendship for me?” “You have overrated my influence with 
Nero. ’Tis true, he fears, but he also hates me, and, for the same 
cause, because he believes me a favorite with the soldiery, but, in 
this case, he will heed me little, I fear, for he knows he has the 
popular voice on his side, when he punishes these Christians, and, 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


21 


because he hates them with a hatred as deadly as can be cherished 
in the human breast.” “And what have they done to incur his 
hatred ? Can it be on account of the conflagration in the city ?” 
“No. For it is more than suspected that our imperial master 
himself caused those fires to be kindled. No, Flavius, the de- 
struction of the whole city would not have planted in his selfish 
breast such a deep and malignant spite. I will tell you the whole 
story, for it was while you were in Britain the circumstance oc- 
curred, though I think you must have heard of the beautiful 
Valeria.” “I have. She was the favorite of the Emperor.” 
“Favorite is too cold a world, my Flavius. All the love and 
kindly feelings that ever found a place in the breast of the tyrant 
were lavished upon her. Her word was his law. Her slightest 
wish was gratified, and most nobly did she use her power. Was 
a petition for mercy offered to the Emperor, Valeria was the 
first to second it; was an heroic achievement to be rewarded, 
Valeria’s hand hastened to bestow the prize; her gentle influence 
hushed to repose the stormy and malignant passions rising in the 
breast of Nero, and Rome vainly exalted in the belief that their 
young ruler’s heart was filled with heaven’s own attribute, mercy, 
for it was reported at one time, when a warrant for the execu- 
tion of a criminal was presented to him, for his signature, he shed 
tears, and wished he had never learned to write. Aye, this very 
tyrant, whom we now see surrounded by fawning parasites, and 
furiously sacrificing all who dare oppose or obstruct his vile in- 
clinations, was then, or pretended to be, such an enemy to flattery, 
that he severely reprimanded the Senate for amending the wis- 
dom of his measures saying, ‘Keep your approbation till I deserve 
it.’ ” “But, Valeria,” said the young noble, “how did she lose her 
hold upon his affections?” “Some of her relatives or friends, 
I believe, had become Christians, and pursuaded her to hear the 
preaching of one of that sect, an extraordinary man, who pretend- 
ed to be inspired by a Superior Being, and who was known by 
the appellation of the holy Paul. She was taught by him to be- 
lieve that she was committing great wickedness by living with the 
Emperor, and secretly quitted the palace, leaving behind her all 
the costly gifts of the tyrant, and devoting herself to a life of 
prayer. From that moment the rage of the Emperor against this 
fanatical sect has known no bounds, and to avow one’s self a 
Christian is enough to draw down his fiercest indignation.” “And 
what has become of this female? How is it that she has not fallen 
a victim to this indignation?” “Her retreat has not been discov- 
ered, although every means has been employed, and, it is said, 
that Nero has frequently offered pardon and wealth to the vic- 
tims of his hatred, if they would confess where she might be 


22 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


found, but in vain, for a spirit of determined obstinacy seems to 
be the pervading sentiment of these Galileans. Now, with this 
feeling of stern revenge which still rankles in his breast, what 
chance, think you, is there, that he will extend mercy to this 
young man?” “But,” said he, seeing the distress which over- 
spread the countenance of Flavius, “my endeavors shall not be 
wanting. I will own to you, Flavius,” he continued, lowering his 
voice almost to a whisper, “I hate this inhuman tyrant, the blood 
of my ancestors boils within me when I reflect upon the degener- 
acy of Rome, and I have imagined that the statues of our fore- 
fathers frown upon us, as the empty pageants which please his 
low and vulgar mind pass our polluted streets. Are we indeed so 
base as to submit to the degradation of bending our knee, in ser- 
vile adulation, before this mockery of royalty? Did he possess 
one redeeming quality, one noble virtue, we might, under that, 
shelter our pulsillanimity, but, by the shade of Brutus, we have 
nought to excuse us in our mean endurance of his vile caprices. 
But a few weeks have passed since our venerable Senators, even 
in that chamber, rendered sacred by the associations, hallowed in 
the heart of every true Roman, were obliged to sanction the ad- 
mittance of his favorite horse to the Consulship. By the memory 
of those most revered,” said the excited Roman, starting from his 
seat, “this shall not be borne !” 

The countenance of the young Flavius had reflected the in- 
dignant emotions of the elder speaker, and the deep flush upon 
his cheek expressed his sense of the degradation of his country. 
“Servius Galba,” he said, in the same subdued, but earnest tone, 
“point but the way to relieve Rome of this disgrace, and I will 
be the first to follow it.” “Enough,” said Galba, “the path shall 
be opened ; yes, by the guardian deities of our city, the despicable 
tyrant shall yet lick the dust he has polluted, but, rny purpose is in 
embryo, and I had not thought to say so much, but with you, noble 
Flavius, the secret is safe, you shall know more in due time ; per- 
haps the moment of our deliverance may be nearer than I 
thought.” “In the meantime,” said the young noble, “I may rely 
upon your intercession for my friend?” “You may,” said he, “I 
will see Nero without delay,” and Flavius left the apartment with 
an awakened hope for the deliverance of his friend, for he be- 
lieved Nero would not dare resist the request of Servius Sul- 
spicus Galba, the favorite of the powerful soldiery of Rome, and 
one of her most popular citizens. Quitting the splendid palace 
of the patrician, he passed hastily through the streets, until he 
arrived at the large and gloomy building whose walls enclosed 
the devoted young Christian, who had becom.e endeared to him 
by his virtues, and by that strong tie which binds congenial hearts. 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


23 


Armed soldiers were stationed around, but no opposition was of- 
fered to the entrance of Lucius Flavius. Descending the stone 
staircase, and proceeding rapidly through the narrow passages, 
he arrived before the cell where he encountered a sentinel, who, 
with respect, opposed his farther progress. An order, he said, 
had been received from the Emperor, prohibiting all further inter- 
course with the prisoner. “That order, my friend, cannot refer 
to me. Come, my good fellow, allow me to enter for a few mo- 
ments, and here is where withal to pass many a merry hour.’^ 
Half believing that the young Roman was exempted from the 
prohibition, and strongly tempted by the glittering bribe, the sol- 
dier, after some hesitation, withdrew the bolts, and permitted him 
to enter. 

“Now, my little brother,” said Herbert, “I must call upon you 
for a display of self-denial, which you will, perhaps, think too 
great. Our mother’s business requires my absence for a few 
days ; it is a pleasure to me to read the story with you, and if you 
will conclude to delay the interest you take in its progress until 
my return, we can then share it together; shall it be so?” It 
would be difficult to determine whose countenance was most over- 
clouded, Susan’s or Charles’s. “Oh, certainly we will wait,” said 
Charles, “but I am so sorry, and, how long shall you be away, 
Herbert?” “Tomorrow is Saturday,” said Herbert. “I will en- 
deavor to be at home on Wednesday, and you know, Charles, the 
Sabbath evening intervenes, when I should not read.” “Do not 
despair, dear Charles,” said his mother. “I think we may pass 
away the time profitably and pleasantly.” But notwithstanding 
this prediction, the cloud had not dispersed when they retired for 
the night. 

The morning dawned, but not with its usual splendor. Dark 
and heavy clouds lowered around the horizon, and many were the 
signs foretelling a stormy day, but, as Herbert’s first stage was 
only about eight miles, the gloomy weather did not prevent his 
journey. Towards afternoon, the storm set in with violence, and 
every gloomy prognostic, so well known to those who live near 
the ocean, was verified. As evening drew on, Susan stood at a 
window, watching the wild motion of the waves, and listening to 
their uproar. “Are there not frequent shipwrecks upon this coast, 
dear aunt?” said she. “There has been but one within my recol- 
lection,” said Mrs. Wilson; “a vessel, manned principally, I be- 
lieve, with seaman from Scotland, was driven from its course 
by a terrible storm, and dashed upon the rocks. The bodies of 
seven men were found upon the beach in the morning, and only 


24 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


one living being to lament the loss of his companions. After- 
wards, fire or six more were washed on shore, and they were all 
interred with respect and due solemnity in the public burying 
ground, the solitary survivor attending as chief mourner.” 


Chapter IV 


The sounding tempest roars, the foaming waves 
Lash round the rugged coast ; amid the howl 
Of raging winds is heard the signal gun 
Warning of danger and distress. 

The thick curtains were drawn around the windows, excluding 
the sight, if not the sound, of the tempest without, and the cheer- 
ful group again encircled their warm and glowing fire, but much 
lamenting the absence of Herbert. Charles, with much anima- 
tion, informed his mother that everything was well sheltered from 
the storm. “Philip has shut up old Brindle, snug and warm,” 
said he, “and I have helped him fill Robin’s crib.” “That is well, 
my good boy,” said his mother, “and now, after taking good care 
of your dependents, you can enjoy the comforts of a pleasant 
fireside.” Susan now recurred to the circumstance of the ship- 
wreck and Mrs. Wilson read part of a little poem written on the 
occasion. 

“ ’T’will be a wild and fearful night, mark the dark, rugged 
clouds ; 

Now Heaven protect the mariners who hang upon the shrouds,” 
So spake the aged fisherman, as with a careful hand 
He well secured his little boat from parting from the land. 

“Look, boy, if there’s a ship in sight, my mind misgives me sore. 
That many a stout, brave heart now beats that soon shall beat no 
more.” 

“Why, Grandsire, always when it storms,” replied the thoughtless 
lad, 

You think about the sailor-men, and feel so very bad. 

There’s not a single ship in sight, and it is true enough 
I hope there is none near our coast, the weather is so rough. 

I should like to be a sailor if it always would be fair. 

But in a frightful storm like this I think I should not dare.” 

And now they left the stormy beach and gained their lowly home. 
Behind a sheltering hill it stood, secluded and alone. 

A warm, bright blaze illumined the little window of the room. 
And, at their steps, a smiling face peeped out into the storm. 
“Grandsire and Willie both have come,” said a playful little voice, 
“Come in out of the wind and rain, now mother will rejoice. 
We’ve got a very charming fire, and I have parched some corn 


26 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


And there is nothing now to do but sit down and be warm.” 

Her grandsire kissed her rosy cheek and with a merry air 
Her brother dropped his dripping hat upon her glossy hair. 

They gathered round the cheerful fire and while the sullen gale 
Swept mournful by, sat listening to many a piteous tale 
Which the old grandsire told of days long past and gone, 

When a stout and hardy sailor he had weathered many a storm ; 
And down the gentle mother’s cheek stole many a silent tear, 
While for her absent sailor boy her heart throbbed quick with fear. 
For, far away to foreign lands, her eldest one had sailed, 

And oft for fear in such a storm her loving heart had failed. 

The stormy wind howled fearfully around their lowly home. 

The angry waves dashed on the beach their sheets of glistening 
foam. 

That beach, whose shining sands reflect the sun’s bright sparkling 

ray, 

Is hid from sight amidst the dark, wild, blinding spray. 

‘‘Lord, let thy holy will be done,” the pious old man said. 

As calm he bent his knees in prayer before he sought his bed. 
Though fearful were the stormy blasts and loud the billows’ roar. 
As gathering yet new strength they fiercely beat upon the shore. 
Yet, midst the wild and fearful din sweet sleep with visions bright 
Hovered around their peaceful couch throughout that stormy 
night. 

And in hope’s glowing rosy tints painted the blissful hour 
When once again the wanderer’s feet shall cross his mother’s door. 
Far o’er that raging ocean and amidst old Scotia’s hills, 

Ah, many a kind and loving heart that night with rapture thrills, 
As Hope, delusive, marks the time when prosperous and gay 
Their absent loved ones shall return from o’er the distant sea ; 
That wished-for time will never come, for on New England’s 
coast 

The gallant ship is ’midst the storm and howling tempest lost ; 

And while the mother and the wife are dreaming of the hour 
That to their home the much-loved son and husband will restore. 
The wind with loud and frightful roar drowns their last dying cry 
And ’mid the wild and dashing waves is spent their latest sigh. 

‘T like the ballad style of poetry,” said Mary ; “it is so natural 
and so many little incidents may be introduced which touch the 
feelings and delight the fancy.” “I am an admirer of poetry,” said 
Mrs. Wilson, “but I have not patience to read much of the sickly 
sentiment, dignified by that name, which is beginning to be the 
style of the present day, and I much prefer the old English bal- 
lad, with all its homely simplicity.” 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


27 


After a pleasant and lively conversation the evening was closed 
and they retired. 

The storm had gradually subsided during the night and the 
morning sun shone clear. The turbulent waves had receded from 
the shining sands, a fresh and mild breeze dispersed every vapor 
and the Sabbath morning, in all its calm and peaceful stillness, 
was again welcomed. There is no feeling more delightful to one 
whose taste is in unison with it than the lovely quiet of a peaceful 
Sabbath morning. Even nature seems hushed, the wind lulled 
into more tranquil murmurs, and the notes of the birds on a 
summer day sound sweeter and more subdued. After the break- 
fast table was arranged in due order Philip and Phoebe pre- 
sented themselves in their Sunday attire and smiling faces, pre- 
pared to join the family in listening to the reading of the Bible, 
and the day was spent in the usual Sabbath duties. “Mother,’’ 
said Charles, “I liked the sermon this afternoon very much be- 
cause it was about Ruth.” “It is a story of much interest,” said 
Mrs. Wilson, “and read in connection with other parts of the 
Bible, of much profit.” “Was the country of the Moabites very 
rich and fertile at that time ?” “There is no doubt of it, my son, 
but it is now accursed of God and almost deserted by man. For- 
merly it was a land abounding in wealth and all the luxuries of 
life, and through its thickly populated country ran a high road 
where were continually passing immense caravans loaded with 
rich merchandise, and travellers from different nations, thus dis- 
tributing wealth throughout the whole territory. But the sound 
of trade and commerce has long since died upon its borders, the 
once fruitful soil no longer yields its treasures, and the wan- 
dering Bedouin gains but a miserable subsistence amidst its sandy 
deserts, which now echo only the heavy trot of his camels. We 
can hardly recognize in the description of late travelers the land 
of plenty which gave refuge to the famished Bethlehemites. I 
will read you a few lines of a poem entitled “Ruth.” 

“Where Moab’s fertile plains once lay, in glowing beauty dressed, 
Now spreads a dreary, barren waste, far as the eye can rest. 
There, where a nation flourished once in plenty and repose. 

Scarce for the hardy camels’ feed, a scanty herbage grows. 

And o’er that sandy desert roams the Arab, fierce and wild. 
Where dwelt in peace the Moabite, and verdant meadows smiled. 
Thy pride, O haughty nation, has thy sure destruction wrought, 
And o’er thy once fair, happy land deep misery has brought. 
Where are your haughty sovereigns, your luxurious people, 
where ? 

Your conquering armies, riches, splendor, mighty power? 


28 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


All, all are gone, amidst thy temples creep the briars and the 
Thorn, 

And deadly serpents hiss among thy palaces forlorn.” 

“It has been a very pleasant Sabbath, dear Aunt,” said Mary, 
“so peaceful and quiet.” “I like to remember the Sabbaths of my 
youthful days,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Let me repeat some lines 
referring to them and you will remember, dear, that in those days 
lived many of our old Puritan ministers, so many of whom have 
now gone to their rest.” 

SABBATH MORNING. 

“How memory paints 

That hallowed morn, in youth’s bright, happy hours ! 

The glorious sun seemed brighter, and the birds 
Sang sweeter on that sacred day ; the flowers. 

Rich in their fragrance, seemed more fragrant then ; 

A holy quiet rested o’er the scene ; 

The week-day hum was hushed, no jarring sound 
Disturbed the placid stillness of the hour ; 

The voices, which, with joyous glee, oft made 
The well remembered walls echo again. 

Are gentle and subdued, and even the dog. 

The faithful guardian of our rights, seems now 

Content to waive his noisy privilege 

And, stretched at length upon the sunny step. 

Blinks at the buzzing flies. In fair array 
Our little flock are watching the deep tone 
Of the old bell, to summon them to prayer ; 

But now, no longer on its ancient seat, 

Rests the old church ; ’tis gone ; its tunnel roof. 

Its reverend porches, and its shining spire 
All gone ; and only memory’s fond dream 
Is shadowing forth its antique lineaments.” 

After retiring for the night, “Well,” said Mary, “what has 
become of our sad forebodings for the winter?” “Do not say our 
forebodings, dear sister, they were mine, and I am heartily 
ashamed of my discontented repinings. I never worked or studied 
with so much interest, and since the letter arrived informing us 
of the great improvement in our father’s health, I have been per- 
fectly happy.” “I never knew,” said Mary, “the full meaning of 
our old theme before : 

“Home is the resort 

Of peace and plenty, where, supporting and supported. 
Polished friends and dear relations mingle into bliss.” 


Chapter V 


Listening thro’ the winter eve 
To deeds of long past years, when the fierce Goths 
Invaded Italy ; over her lovely plains 
Poured war and devastation ; or the sad tale 
Of Christian martyrs, faithful to the death. 

The love of nature, with its sublime and beautiful prospects, 
should be sedulously cultivated in the youthful mind from the 
first dawn of reason. The love of reading will be the necessary 
consequence, and this, well directed, is one of the greatest blessings 
of life. For one whose cultivated imagination is delighted with 
descriptions of natural scenery and who is interested in the history 
of past ages will not often seek the haunts of dissipation for 
amusement. From studying and loving the rich and varied land- 
scape of nature he is led to the contemplation of “Nature’s God,” 
and in the formation of the humblest insect and the rich coloring 
of the lowliest flower, as well as in the mightiest work of cre- 
ation, will acknowledge the great Creator. Happy they whose 
ductile minds are thus early directed and whose maturer judg- 
ment confirms them in the sure road to peace. 

The return of Herbert was hailed with joy by the assembled 
household and the succeeding evening he fulfilled his promise 
of continuing the Tale of the Early Christians. 

Seated at a table in a gloomy apartment, lighted by a solitary 
lamp, whose ray disclosed the damp and rugged walls, with the 
certain prospect of a cruel death before him, and denied even 
the solace of a last farewell to his dearest friends, would it have 
been wonderful if the countenance of the lonely prisoner, which 
was raised at the entrance of Flavius, should have expressed a 
deep and settled gloom, or even the stern despair of one who had 
bidden adieu to hope. There are those who possess a controlling 
power over their emotions, who, even in moments of strong agi- 
tation or excitement, from motives of pride, or the desire of ap- 
plause, or some other powerful incentive, will prevent those emo- 
tions from being discovered by assuming a calm and stoical ex- 
terior, but, it was not the haughty pride of the stoic, or the cool 
apathy of the philosopher, who has schooled his feelings into 
indifference, which met the eye of Flavius, as he encountered the 
serene glance of his friend. The noble brow of Curtins was 


30 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


placid as a sleeping infant’s, his brilliant eye reflected the heavenly 
peace which reigned within, and the smile of welcome with which 
he greeted the entrance of his friend was such as we might fancy 
adorned the lips of an inhabitant of the regions of undisturbed 
happiness. “This is indeed kind, my friend, my brother,” said he, 
and as he rose and extended his hand. Flavius perceived that 
his limbs were shackled. “Barbarous tyrant,” said the indignant 
youth, “is not his malice yet complete ? Must these chains be add- 
ed to the measure of his cruelty?” “Waste not a thought, my 
Flavius, they are proofs of Nero’s consideration for his poor 
prisoner, credentials by which he may claim a heavenly residence, 
as being made to follow in the footsteps of his Master. Tomor- 
row, I am told, is the day of my triumph.” “Curtius,” said his 
agitated friend, “all hope is not lost, Galba has promised his 
powerful intercession; it cannot fail.” “It will fail, Flavius; as 
well might you lure the tiger from his prey as induce the Em- 
peror to release a Christian from torture and from death.” “And 
you contemplate this prospect with calmness; nay, you are even 
joyful in it?” “Mistake me not, my friend, life has its charms, 
the prospect of death, its mighty terrors; think you I can con- 
template with indifference the dreary grave shutting out the 
bright loveliness of nature, separating me from those who are 
dearer to me than existence, and closing my ear to the sweet 
accents of affection? Not so; but the chilling shudder of these 
reflections is checked by the image of Him who suffered the 
pangs of death that we might live forever. Far through the 
gloomy perspective of the grave, I see the cheering, the delightful, 
prospect of immortal life, of a reunion with those beloved ones, 
an eternal reunion, and a rapturous vision of joys which eye hath 
not seen, and before which the momentary pangs of death dwin- 
dle into nothing. Believe me, my Flavius, were it possible for 
Nero to know the all-absorbing joy which fills my heart at these 
anticipations, he would revoke his decree, as the severest way of 
punishment. But,” said he, and the animated flush faded from 
his countenance and the hand which clasped that of Flavius, 
pressed it in agitation, “death has indeed its bitterness when I 
think of the defenceless ones I shall leave behind.” “Curtius,” 
said his friend, “nothing that human means can effect to save you 
shall be neglected. But, if all shall fail, give me, my friend, my 
brother, give me your sanction to become the son of your 
mother; the husband of your sister, and, whilst I have life, their 
happiness shall be my dearest object.” Curtius was silent for a 
moment, at length, “Flavius,” said he, “the husband of Cleone 
must be a Christian.” “And if a full conviction and belief that 
the Cod whom you worship is the only true Cod, if a deep and 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


31 


mortifying sense of the degraded nature of our faith, and a long- 
ing desire to possess that trust and heavenly peace which you 
possess, is to be a Christian, then am I one, but it is a hard thing 
to give up the religion of our fathers, and I feel that I have 
not courage to avow these sentiments, and to stem the torrent of 
execration which will be poured upon me.” “But the time will 
come, my Flavius, when you will avow the God of the Christians 
to be your God. Victory, victory,” said the youth, “the temples 
of these Pagan deities will yet be consecrated to the service of the 
living God, and the incense which rests in clouds, upon their 
shrines, will rise in pure and grateful offering to the Holy One of 
Israel; yes, my friend, I bequeath to you the dearest treasures I 
possess ; be to them a faithful guardian, and the blessing of the 
Lord rest upon you.” The eloquent countenance of the young 
noble expressed the thanks he began to pour forth, when the door 
was thrown open, and the sentinel proclaimed that he must leave 
the dungeon, as an express to that effect had been received from 
the captain of the guard. No delay could be granted, and after a 
fervent embrace the friends parted, as Curtius firmly believed, for 
the last time. Left alone and relieved from many anxious 
thoughts, his mind now turned to the awful scenes of the morrow. 
No torments, he well knew, would be too agonizing or too horrid 
for the implacable Nero to invent, none too dreadful for his min- 
ions to execute, but his firm and disciplined mind had been too 
long accustomed to view death as the portal to never ending hap- 
piness, to shrink now from its near approach, even arrayed in its 
utmost terrors. Bending over the table, his thoughts became ab- 
sorbed in the bright prospect of future glory, fervent aspirations 
of gratitude to God for raising an earthly protector for his mother 
and sister, mingling with his reflections, and the Emperor, amidst 
his splendor, might have envied his proscribed prisoner his calm 
and peaceful anticipations. 

Our tale must now return to the deathbed of the aged Chris- 
tian. Sudden indeed, as well as most painful, was this event to 
his affectionate friends; they had left him but an hour before, 
by his own request, as he expressed a fear that their unremitting 
attention to him would injure them, little thinking his dissolution 
was so near, and, as the conviction pressed upon them that the one 
who had supplied the place of the kindest parent, who had shared 
his own, even too small pittance with them, was no more, that 
they could no longer hear his endearing expressions, no longer see 
his mild eye beaming upon them, with parental love, can it be 
wondered that every other consideration was lost, for the time, 
in the sad reflection. As they bent over the couch in unutterable 
grief, their own sorrow was increased by that of the aged domes- 


32 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


tics, who had grown old in the service of the kind and beloved 
master, who now lay before them, in all the stillness of death. 
In those moments of deep and suffocating grief they almost lost 
sight of the consoling and joyful belief that their beloved parent 
was then rejoicing in a heaven of pure and unalloyed felicity, but, 
as they mingled their tears, the silence of heartfelt sorrow was 
interrupted by a sweet and solemn voice, repeating, “Blessed are 
the dead, who die in the Lord,’' and Sister Helena, as she was 
called, a pious Christian recluse, approached and knelt with them, 
by the remains of the good old man. Sweet and soothing to their 
souls were the prayers and thanksgiving which she poured forth 
with fervent earnestness, and they arose from their knees, chast- 
ened and resigned. Cold and insensible must have been the feel- 
ings of those who could have listened to those aspirations un- 
moved, or gazed upon the inspired countenance of this extraordi- 
nary female, without almost fancying that she was indeed an 
angel of consolation, permitted to sojourn awhile upon earth to 
soothe the sorrows of the afflicted, and direct their hopes to that 
bright and happy home which she had quitted upon her errand 
of love. The brightness of her dark and expressive eyes was con- 
trasted with the marble whiteness of her complexion, her beau- 
tiful hair, which had formerly graced the most precious pearls, 
and adorned costly diamonds, the gifts of royal love, was now 
confined by a simple braid, and the form, once decked in imperial 
purple, and glittering in courtly magnificence, was now wrapped 
in the plainest garb, the simplicity of which could not hid the love- 
liness of her form. In a voice of soothing sympathy, she gave 
some directions to the sorrowing servants, and then kindly led 
the bereaved relations from the chamber of death. “He has de- 
parted in peace,” said she, as they entered a retired chamber, 
“may our last end be like this ; may we die the death of this right- 
eous man, and now, dearest friends, the swiftly passing moments 
warn me to be quick in what I have to relate. Your minds, I 
know, are stayed upon the Rock of Ages, and though I speak of 
danger and death, ye will know that the Lord of all the earth will 
do right. Brother Ambrose, last night, brought the tidings that 
tomorrow is appointed for another of those awful scenes with 
which Rome is now familiar, and, though we know that the mo- 
ment when the soul of the Christian takes its flight from this 
world of sorrow and wickedness is a moment which introduces it 
to an eternity of happiness, unalloyed and unspeakable, vet we 
turn with shuddering grief, from its accompaniments of pain and 
torture.” “Oh, tell me not,” said Cleone, with startling agony of 
voice and manner, “say not that our Curtius is condemned,” and 
overcome with grief and terror, she sank upon the ground, while 


SCATTERED LE^WES 


33 


the mother, with her hands clasped, and her eyes raised, prayed 
for strength from above. “He is indeed condemned,” said Sister 
Helena, “but listen, dear sisters, and see if there is not a ray of 
hope to lighten this gloomy hour. After learning these tidings, I 
left our retreat immediately to comfort you, if possible, and, with 
hasty steps proceeded along the private path which leads from our 
secluded dwelling directly by the remains of the ancient temple 
upon the hill. While groping my way through the ivy and thick 
bushes, I was startled by the sound of voices, proceeding from the 
ruins, and the name of the Emperor repeated with the most awful 
threats, and joined to the fear of discovery induced me to stop 
and conceal myself. That the speakers were bitter enemies to 
Nero was evident from their conversation, and, in a short time I 
gathered from it that they had entered into a conspiracy, and 
bound themselves by solemn oaths to take his life, and, that the 
moment of his leaving the amphitheatre, after the executions, was 
chosen to effect their purpose, as being a moment of confusion 
and dismay. The infamous Caius Piso, whose inveterate hate for 
the Emperor is so well known, I discovered, was at the head of 
the conspiracy, and their measures are so well concerted that they 
must succeed. Now, dear friends, may we not, by warning Nero 
of this imminent, this certain danger, save the life of your beloved 
Curtius? Listen, Cleone, have you courage to face this cruel 
Emperor, and intercede for the life of your brother? And, if he 
refuses to grant it to your prayers, yet you may induce him to 
mercy by convincing him that the means of saving his own life is 
in your power.” “But, do you reflect, Helena, that this inhuman 
tyrant may, and most probably would turn a deaf ear to all her 
intercessions, and force her, by torture, to confess her knowledge 
of this conspiracy? No, it is for me to offer myself a sacrifice 
for my son. I will endure every torment he can inflict, and, per- 
haps, when convinced that he cannot extort the secret, he will 
grant me the life of my child.” “Mother,” said Cleone, throw- 
ing her arms around her neck, “mother, do you doubt my resolu- 
tion, my courage, my ability to endure any suffering for the sake 
of those so dear to me ? Oh, let me go ; I will throw myself at 
his feet ; he cannot resist my supplications ; he will be grateful to 
us for saving him from sure destruction, and reward us by re- 
storing my brother to his home and friends.” “Hear me,” said 
Sister Helena, “I myself would be the intercessor, were I not cer- 
tain that Nero would recognize in me one who has incurred his 
mostly deadly hatred, one whom he would not hesitate to sacri- 
fice to his revengeful passions, and whose entreaties for the life 
of the young Christian would only be a passport for his speedy 
death. You, madam,” said she, addressing the distressed and al- 


34 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


most fainting mother, '‘are known as a Christian. You have al- 
ready been exposed to the suspicions of Nero, and have but barely 
escaped his cruel persecutions by a life of the strictest seclusion. 
Your daughter, reared in retirement, and unknown to the world, 
would not be so obnoxious, and she might not be unprotected. 
The young Flavius, the unswerving friend of Curtius, who has 
already braved the indignation of the tyrant, for his sake, would, 
without doubt, accompany and support her, and high in rank, 
and beloved by all parties, his influence would go far to ensure her 
safety. But, we have but moments to deliberate ; midnight is the 
time appointed for these conspirators to meet and perfect their 
plan, and, if we resort to these, I am convinced, only means, to 
save the life of this dear friend, Nero must know all in season to 
apprehend them together.” "Do not hesitate, mother, dearest, 
dearest mother, let me save my brother from this awful death ; I 
shall be safe; God will protect me; He will aid me to confront 
this terrible Nero.” "My Cleone, my darling child, mmst I ex- 
pose you to this danger? Must I thrust you, as it were, into the 
jaws of this inhuman monster? Oh, think, dear sister, of his ag- 
gravated cruelties ; remember the fate of his own mother and 
wife ; when has any consideration stayed his barbarity ? How can 
we expect, how can we even hope that he will lose his grasp of 
a victim, so completely in his power ? He will sacrifice them both, 
and I — I shall be left childless and alone!” Tears of commisera- 
tion streamed from the eyes of the sympathizing recluse. "Be it 
as you please,” said she, "I cannot, dare not urge you to a meas- 
ure which may indeed end as you fear ; although I think it would 
be otherwise. I know the disposition of Nero. Alas!” said she, 
with shuddering grief, "who should know it so well ! Amidst all 
his fierce cruelty, he is a very coward by nature, and nothing so 
perfectly unmans him as the fear of death.” "Go then, my 
Cleone,” said her mother, "if possible, save your brother from this 
dreadful doom, and if I am bereaved of both, I will pray that I, to, 
may join you in that heaven, where there is no separation.” 

The evening was now advanced, and Herbert closed the vol- 
ume. "How was it possible,” said Susan, "that Valeria, for it 
was she, I suppose, who bore the name of Sister Helena, could 
have eluded the search of the vindicative Emperor? With his 
exasperated feelings, he would leave no means untried to discover 
her, and these being joined with his great power, I cannot 
imagine how she could have been saved.” "Though the early 
Christians,” said Herbert, "when called to give a reason for the 
hope that was in them, were bold in conscious innocence, though 
they shrank not from danger or death in the service of their Mas- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


35 


ter, still, they did not, needlessly, cast away their lives; but, even 
with the prudence of worldly wisdom, avoided exposure. Their 
residence was often in the most obscure places, in the depths of 
gloomy forests, or in caves of the earth, from whence, in the still 
hours of night, the sounds of praise and thanksgiving arose to 
Him to whom ‘the darkness is as at noonday.’ Many of these 
subterranean abodes are still shown, and the inscriptions upon the 
walls prove them to have been the homes of the perse- 
cuted Christians.” ‘T should like to go to Rome,” said Charles, 
“and go into those caves, and see the ruins of that great city.” 
“And those ancient pavements,” said Mary, “which have been 
swept by the imperial purple, and visit the tombs, where rest the 
remains of those great and good, of whom we read.” “Now 
Mary is upon her hobby,” said Susan, “and she will not stop 
short of the Holy Land at least. If she were only an old man, 
with a big wig, she would be a most inveterate antiquary.” “I 
will sympathize with you, dear Mary, said Elizabeth, “if to read 
of former ages, and their stirring events, excites so much inter- 
est, how delightful to stand upon the spots commemorated in his- 
tory, but, above all, to tread in the footsteps of the Saviour, and 
visit the scenes hallowed by his presence.” “To stand upon the 
Mount of the Olive trees,” said Herbert, “to wander by the brook 
Cedron, and through the ancient burial places of the Jews. To 
linger by the shores of the sea of Galilee, and mark the swelling 
waters, to fix in our ‘mind’s eye’ the very place where Jesus 
walked upon the boisterous waves. Come evening, remind me, 
Mary, and I will read some lines which may interest you, as being 
an admirer of poetry as well as of these remembrances of by- 
gone days.” 


Chapter VI 


The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded 
brightness. 

And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air. 
All breathe of peace and loveliness ; man’s base passions alone mar 
the scene. 

Although Mrs. Wilson lived in comparative retirement, yet her 
house was the abode of hospitality. Many valuable friends of her 
younger years, and of her husband, still kept up that friendly 
intercourse which had always been a source of pleasure and im- 
provement ; and among them were many, not only the most pious, 
but the most enlightened and amiable characters of the day. In 
their society the young people became accustomed to that true 
politeness, that delicate wit and refined conversation which is the 
sure index of good breeding and high intellect. While surrounded 
by visitors of this class they could not so much regret the loss 
of their evening entertainments, and, when left with only their 
own domestic circle, they returned to them with renewed enjoy- 
ment. Some evenings had elapsed during one of those pleasant 
seasons of visiting, and the continuation of the Tale, which had 
so interested them, had been necessarily delayed, but at length 
the time arrived when they were again alone and at liberty to 
pursue their course of reading. 

“The moonbeams shone in rich splendor upon the massy walls 
and towers of the imperial palace and illumed the glittering arms 
of the guard who surrounded it. Preparations for a feast were 
going on and strains of soft music were heard within. Its mag- 
nificent apartments were blazing with light and sparkling with 
gold and silver ornaments and the fragrance of the scented drap- 
eries diffused itself through their vast extent. In an inner cham- 
ber, more gorgeously decorated, and hung with cloth of gold, the 
bordering of which was heavy with jewels, reclined upon a lux- 
urious couch the infamous Nero, the lord of all this splendor, 
but despised and contemned by even the meanest of his subjects. 
His purple robe hung in rich folds over the silver drapery of his 
couch, his long, perfumed hair was. parted over his white fore- 
head, displaying an effeminate countenance which, to a casual 
observer, would show none of those traits of revengeful malice 
or diabolical cruelty which were the characteristics of the despotic 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


37 


Emperor. His jeweled fingers pressed lightly the strings of a 
lute and the careless indolence of his attitude expressed total in- 
difference to everything excepting his own ease. A few attend- 
ants stood at the door and his favorite freedman waited near 
the couch to receive the first indications of his pleasure. “Ani- 
cetus/’ said he, at length, raising his heavy eyes, in the expres- 
sion of which alone might be seen the evil passions of his nature, 
“did you instruct my guards to admit the woman whom we en- 
countered at the bath?” “I did, mighty Emperor,” was the an- 
swer. “Repeat to me the words of her address.” “My lord, to 
the best of my recollection, these were her very words : Mhe star 
of thy nativity wanes ; wouldst thou know more ? admit me ere 
thy revel begins.’ ” The complexion of Nero grew paler as he 
said in a low tone: “Dost thou believe in the prophetic gifts of 
these Sybils?” “The star of Nero will always be in the ascendant,” 
said the freedman. “Is not his word the law of Rome? and not 
of Rome only, but of the whole world?” and he bowed to the 
ground in cringing servility. “Nevertheless, I would hear what 
this woman would reveal ; see that she is admitted at the time. 
Some wine, Anicetus. What insufferable insolence in Servius 
Galba .to interfere in the execution of my will! His haughty 
ambition requires pruning. Reprieve! pardon the arrogant Chris- 
tian, who has dared to brave my power ! No ! by Jupiter, the ex- 
tremest tortures shall punish his audacity; we will see if his de- 
meanor will retain its insulting composure. Are all my orders 
executed? Is everything in readiness?” “Everything, my noble 
lord ; all has been prepared according to your directions, and 
your decree to that effect has been given to the impudent Christian, 
who will have the night to contemplate the certainty of his de- 
served fate.” “It is ’well,” said Nero, and a malignant smile 
passed across his features and, while carelessly tuning his instru- 
ment, his thoughts were apparently rioting in the prospect of the 
gratification of his revenge. At this moment the woman, who, 
by his order was suffered to enter, appeared at the door of the 
apartment. As the freedman met her with an impatient gesture, 
she waved him aside and, with a firm step and commanding air, 
advanced to the couch, from which Nero had started. The same 
dark and piercing eyes were fixed upon him which had terri- 
fied Cleone and the same deep and hollow voice sounded in his 
ear.” The decree of Fate is even now passing; the fiat of jus- 
tice is being issued ; thou, who hast arrogated to thyself the pow- 
ers of life and death at the dictates of thine own base passions, 
tremble before a Power in whose sight thou art but as a grain 
of dust, more degraded than the meanest worm of the ground 
thou hast polluted. The Sun of the universe will arise, but not 


38 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


for thee ; the breeze of the mountains will refresh all nature, but 
its healthful influence will impart no life to thine inanimate form ; 
Emperor of Rome ! the sands of your life are few and fast ebb- 
ing!’’ Nero had stood motionless and as she stayed her denun- 
ciations he sank again upon his couch, but a moment elapsed, 
when rage and anger glowed in his countenance, before pale as 
marble. “Wretch !” said he, “thy fate is sealed, tortures and death 
await thee.” Unshrinkingly she stood before the tyrant, unawed 
she witnessed his deadly rage. “Yet retrace thy steps,” she said, 
“man of many crimes, while yet in thy power repair those evils 
which have not passed beyond thy influence. From the deep 
abyss of thy guilt and infamy look up ; for, far through the 
fearful gloom the rays of the sweet star of mercy may reach even 
thee. For me, I am beyond your power ; you can neither save nor 
destroy me. Nero, to purchase the slender chance for mercy 
which is yet yours I would barter life and yield it amidst all the 
torments the art of man could inflict. But my time has elapsed ; 
we meet no more on earth.” So saying, before the dismayed Em- 
peror could collect his scattered thoughts, she passed from the 
apartment and from the astonished gaze of the attendants who, 
though distant spectators of the scene, had not heard what had 
passed. “Draw near, Anicetus,” said Nero, as his freedman ap- 
proached. “Where did Galba direct his steps when he left our 
presence? I liked not his haughty bearing.” To the Senate 
chamber, my lord.” “Ha! are the Senate together tonight? for 
what purpose?” “I know not, most mighty Emperor; the doors 
of the chamber are closed.” “The slaves! do they dare?” He 
strode the apartment with hasty steps, his cheeks blanched with 
passion. “Discover,” said he, “the cause of this secret sitting; 
by my head, they shall dearly rue this audacity. Bring me the 
report without delay.” The freedman bent his body in obedi- 
ence and withdrew. Left alone, the restless motions and per- 
turbed demeanor of the Emperor expressed the agitation of his 
mind. At times he would gnash his teeth in anger, then strong 
lines of terror and dismay would cross his features. At length, 
throwing himself upon the couch, he covered his face with his 
hands and appeared lost in thought. The lowliest goatherd 
among the Appenines, who, lying down at night with but the 
hard ground for a pillow and a canopy of boughs for a shelter, 
knows not where to find his daily food, was happier than this 
lord of Italy. Of what avail was all this pomp to him, whose 
splendid robes covered a heart beating with terror and alarm? 
The abode of suspicion and fear, torn with the pangs of dark 
remorse, but still raging with the most horrid passions, to gratify 
which the country which he was bound to serve and protect was 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


39 


made to bleed at every pore? The meanest serf, the most de- 
graded slave throughout this vast empire would have refused to 
exchange situations with this lordly tyrant could they have real- 
ized the horrors of his guilty conscience. At one moment he 
would devise means to crush the Senate at a single blow ; then 
the words of the Sybil, recurring to his mind, the idea of concilia- 
tion would be uppermost, and, though his whole frame trembled 
with impotent rage, yet he would determine to practise his pow- 
ers of dissimulation and defer the gratification of his revenge 
to a more fitting opportunity. The superstitious terrors of his 
intellect were all aroused, his cowardly heart quailed at the 
shadow of coming events which he knew would overwhelm him. 
and his revengeful passions were all in wild commotion. 

A slave, bending before him, announced Lucius Flavius, and, 
collecting his thought, and endeavoring to smooth his brow to 
composure, he ordered that the patrician should be admitted. 

Herbert was here interrupted by the call of some persons upon 
business which might detain him some time, to the great annoy- 
ance of the little party. A pleasant conversation, however, com- 
menced upon the influence of superstition over mankind through- 
out all ages of the world. “Even in our enlightened age,” said 
Mrs. Wilson, “we find many who are slaves to superstition in 
some of its various forms, but its influence is milder and gradu- 
ally decreasing. Within a century and a half persons whose 
minds were enlightened, of undoubted piety, and who would 
have smiled in derision at the superstitious observances of the 
ancient Romans, professed full faith in witchcraft, that most ter- 
rific of all delusions.” “Oh,” said Mary, “I never hear the rela- 
tion of those times without a shudder. What could have been 
the cause of such frightful credulity?” “It is shrouded in mys- 
tery,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and, probably, in this world we shall 
never know. Let us be thankful that no vestiges of such infatu- 
ation are left, but the sad spot where so many victims to its mad- 
dening influence perished.” “Even here,” said Elizabeth, “we 
are not exempted from this universal passion ; we, too, have had 
our renowned fortune teller.” “Oh, yes,” said Susan, “I over- 
heard Phoebe, the other day, gravely recounting the wonderful 
predictions of this redoubtable Sybil.” “Was Moll Pitcher a 
Sybil ?” said Charles. “She would have passed for one in ancient 
times, Charles,” said his mother, “and, with her shrewd counte- 
nance and small, black eyes, aided by her red cloak and hood, 
might, I think, have played her part quite respectably. Her 
dwelling, too, would be appropriate for such a character; deso- 
late and dreary, at the foot of the high rock, and embellished with 


40 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


a tall memento of one of the monsters of the ocean, the rib of a 
whale. I will read some lines upon her name and character by 
some witty poet of the day: 

MOLL PITCHER 

“Ah ! dost thou laugh at the familiar name ? 

Deride and ridicule her world- wide fame? 

Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power, 

At whose dread magic even wise men cower? 

Laugh, if you will ; the time has long gone by 
When Moll would change your laugh into a cry. 

Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yore 
No thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power. 

Should even the smile incredulous appear. 

Woe to its author, luckless his career ! 

Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones. 

How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans ! 

At midnight hour, when bites and itching smart 
Assailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart, 

Even his household gods seemed leagued to slay 
His bosom’s peace and drive his joys away ; 

On his own threshold his unwary feet 
Would stumbling slip and sad disaster meet ; 

His faithful dog would snarl at his caress. 

And wholesome food with racking pains distress. 

Oh, witch implacable ! how oft thy form 
At distance seen caused the scared youth to run. 

How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy name 
While toiling o’er the slowly turning cream ! 

How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar, 

Foreboded evil and excited fear ! 

Fear to the maiden, lest the raging sea 

Had whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy ; 

Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beam 
Of Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream ; 

Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glance 
Should tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance ; 

And even the parson grave forebore to frown 
As her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form. 

For why? His memory this precaution lends 
‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’ 

Yet oft the village gossip told a deed 
Of kindly pity to the poor man’s need ; 

How Moll would stand beside the bed of death 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


41 


And bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath, 

The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan. 

Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone. 

That many a smile relieved the falling tear. 

As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear. 

While her capacious pocket would bring forth 
Rich stores of apples red to raise their mirth. 

Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fame 
Still lingers round the spot that bears her name. 

‘Moll Pitchers house,’ a lonely spot, full sure, 

Though some there were who sought her close-shut door. 
Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate, 

Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait ; 

As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance. 

Their lingering feet would stealthily advance, 

With timid knock they waked the echoes lone, 

Then started back, half tempted to return. 

But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic rites 
Attendant on those dark and fearful nights. 

Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame say 
That better far ’twould be to stay away. 

Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form. 

The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan ; 

There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there 
’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear. 

There let the memory of her follies lie ; 

The memory of true worth will never die.” 

“Did you ever see a witch, mother?” said Charles. “If you will 
listen, my son, I will tell you a story, the only one relating to a 
witch, which ever came to my certain knowledge. 

“When I was a tiny school girl there stood a lonely little house 
at the foot of a rising ground on the direct road to our school 
house ; there were no trees about it, but a few choke berries and 
alder bushes, for there was a marshy piece of ground there. A 
very small lot was cultivated as a garden by the hands of its only 
inhabitant, poor old ‘Aunt Lois,’ as everybody called her. No- 
body knew any harm of Aunt Lois, but every body said ‘Cer- 
tainly she was a witch.’ The time had passed when witches were 
hanged or burned, so Aunt Lois lived peaceably in her own home, 
but many wonderful stories were told about her, such as that she 
was seen churning butter in the night, and, though nothing could 
be nicer or sweeter than her butter, yet some wise people asserted 
‘that she must have help about it which nobody knew of.’ Old 
Joe Hart said that he had seen a company of witches, riding on 


42 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


broomsticks through the air, with Aunt Lois at their head with 
a cap and long cloak on, and a wand in her hand. This, he said 
was ‘‘just as true as anything he ever said in all his life,” but 
as Joe was noted for telling great stories, people would have 
been glad of better authority. But no part of the community 
was more troubled about these stories than the children belonging 
to the school, and, though the boys blustered a good deal and 
said ‘Who’s afraid?’ yet it was observed that they always kept 
the side of the lane farthest from Aunt Lois’s house ; and, as to 
the girls, they would scramble over the fence and run through a 
swamp rather than go near it. An event, however, occurred 
which not only quieted their fears, but even made Lois popular 
in their opinion. It was a warm afternoon in the summer, when 
a little troop of boys and girls were returning from school, when 
they espied among the wet ground at the foot of the hill, near 
the old woman’s house, a cluster of beautiful lilies. Never were 
any wild flowers so much sought for as those lilies, for they were 
very scarce and of rare and beautiful colors. ‘I know I can get 
some,’ said Catherine, and, followed closely by two others, she 
bounded over the low wall and, without taking thought of the 
swamp, she sprang forward to be the first to gain the wished-for 
prize. But soon the ground began to give way beneath her feet, 
but she had almost gained the flowers, and, supposing that by one 
more leap she should gain sure footing, she jumped forward, 
but down she sank, deep, deep in the mire, and there she was 
planted, unable to stir her feet, and imagining her little body was 
going, too, she did not know where. She was near enough to 
clasp the tall stems of the lilies and clung to them as if for sup- 
port, but the slender roots gave way and, though she had gained 
the desired objects, yet she would joyfully have given them up to 
her frightened companions, who had stopped just before they 
arrived at the fatal spot, could she have been safe with them. ‘Do 
help me, Martha; do take my hand, Susie,’ screamed the little 
girl, but when they dare not come further and were turning 
back, she began to sob and cry most piteously. But, just then, 
terrible to behold, Aunt Lois’s door opened and, to our great 
dismay, she appeared. What a scampering now ensued! The 
boys jumped over the wall and the girls ran, without looking back, 
until they had gained what they considered a safe distance from 
the dreaded spot, but the little girl was left, unable to stir. She 
covered her face with her hands to shut out the sight of the old 
witch, but she heard her step and the terror of she knew not 
what almost took away her senses. ‘For mercy’s sake, my little 
dear,’ said Aunt Lois, ‘why did you come into this wet, boggv 
place ? I don’t know as I can get to you, but put out your hand. 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


43 


If I should get stuck here, too, we should be in a pickle.’ Cath- 
erine obeyed, for the voice of Aunt Lois sounded kind and pleas- 
ant, and, with a strong pull, she extricated the little girl, but a 
sad sight was displayed. Her feet were black with the mud of 
the swamp, but, her shoes being tied on, she did not lose them. 
And now, to the great terror of the children, who were watching 
from their hiding places, Lois carried the little girl into her house, 
and solemn was the consultation as we gathered together and 
debated upon her fate. Such long and dismal faces are seldom 
seen, such terrible stories were told as made the eyes of the 
younger children dilate with dismay. But at this moment the 
little Catherine was seen running toward us. ‘Aunt Lois isn’t 
a witch,’ said she, ‘see, she has washed my shoes and the bottom 
of my dress, and she has given me some doughnuts and some 
apples, and picked me a whole bunch of lilies.’ The charm was 
at an end. Aunt Lois’s cake and apples were eaten with great 
relish and, ever after, in the opinion of the children. Aunt Lois 
was ‘a grand, good old woman.’ ” 

“I wish all witch stories would end as well as this,” said Susan. 
“And that all witches were as good as Aunt Lois,” said Charles. 


Chapter VII 


Judea’s daughters mourn her blighted soil, 

Her dark-eyed sons in foreign regions toil, 

But Holy is the land where Jesus trod 
Sacred its soil, though desolate and sad. 

A bright, clear, cold Sabbath morning dawned. The smooth 
snow sparkled as if sprinkled with diamonds, and the bracing at- 
mosphere seemed to infuse new life into creation. The strict 
habits of our Puritan fathers, in regard to public worship, were 
not forgotten in the family of Mrs. Wilson, and, when, all meet- 
ing at their social evening conversation, many remarks were made 
upon the exercises of the day, no carping criticisms, no sarcastic 
observations were indulged in, or would have been permitted. 
Ministers, in those days, were both loved and reverenced ; loved 
for themselves, and reverenced for their holy vocation, and, gen- 
erally grew old among a people to whom they were attached by 
the strongest ties, whose interests were theirs, and whose chil- 
dren were considered their own. There is no more beautiful de- 
scription of a country clergyman, and none that more generally ap- 
plies to the times of which I am writing, than Goldsmith’s. The 
pastors, in those days, literally “allured to brighter worlds, and 
led the way.” 

After a day spent in listening to the words of one of those 
emphatically good men, the evening fire was surrounded by our 
little company, who were comparing notes upon the services of the 
day. The subject was Christ choosing his disciples, and, one of 
the remarks of one of the speakers was, that because the first fol- 
lowers of Christ were probably illiterate men, it should not be 
infered that learning was not necessary for ministers of the pres- 
ent day. Almighty power could inspire them with wisdom, with- 
out human means, and, that was then the case, but the miraculous 
interposition of Providence was not now granted, therefore, edu- 
cation was a most useful auxiliary to piety. An interesting con- 
versation upon the subject then ensued. At length Mary remind- 
ed Herbert of his promise to read them some poetry, and he read 
as follows : 

“The setting sun shone bright and clear on Galilee’s dark sea, 
Lovely was its reflection of the clear and cloudless sky. 

The fisher’s boats were scattered o’er the broad and deep expanse 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


45 


And the mingled sounds of busy life re-echoed from its banks, 
Here Naz’reth’s populous city stretched its crowded noisy street, 
And there Capernaum’s lofty towers the passing traveler greet ; 
Here the wild fig tree bends beneath its luscious watery load. 
And there the light green olive spreads around the mountain side. 
Oh ! chosen land ; how lovely then thy hills and valleys seemed. 
That ’midst such beauty dwelt such sin, ah ! who would then have 
deemed, 

Upon those waves, one humble bark was making for the land. 
Weary and faint, its inmates joyed as they approached the strand. 
A life of toil and scanty fare, these humble fishers led. 

And, wearily and patiently they earned their daily bread ; 

The careless glance would scarce remark aught in their aspect 
rude 

Save the dull look of untaught men, in discontented mood. 

But observations practiced eye, would trace the lines of thought. 
Of the sedate intelligence of minds with wisdom fraught; 

Would mark the quick and varying glance of passion, strong and 
deep, 

Though, now, within the calm, cold breast, the stormy feelings 
sleep ; 

Would note the traces of that zeal, which oft in after days 
Glowed in those hearts, and warmed the world by its reflected 
blaze. 

Which led those men, so humble now, with firm and dauntless 
mien, 

Tortures to brave, and even death, with hearts firm and serene; 
But why their looks of earnest awe, now bent towards the shore ? 
Why are those features roused to life, so still and calm before? 
Mark you, on yonder point that form? is it of earth or heaven? 
Though lowly are his robes, such grace is not to mortals given, 
Thy coast, O favored Galilee ! Such foot ne’er pressed before ; 
Such voice, O lovely lake ! ne’er waked the echoes of thy shore, 
Mark but that pure and holy brow, where heaven’s own perfect 
peace 

Sits calm enthroned, and bids the world’s tumultuous passions 
cease. 

That eye, whose quick and piercing glance, whose full and bril- 
liant light 

Searches each heart, and reads each thought of those who meet 
its sight. 

Then listen to that sacred voice, that simple ‘Follow me.’ 

Aye, blessed Jesus, aye ; through life, to death, we follow thee ; 
Such is the quick, the glad response, their earnest gesture shows. 
See, in their looks the free assent, e’er from their lips it flows. 


46 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Peter ! thy dark and flashing eye, thy lips compressed and stern, ^ 
Says ‘though all men forsake thee, Lord, yet is my purpose firm’ ; 
And it was firm, though the dark tempter sought, by many a wile. 
To lure him from his plighted faith, and lead his heart to guile; 
Yes; it was firm, for with his blood he made the compact sure. 
And, on the Rock of Peter’s faith, the church will rest secure. 
The waters of that hallowed lake still wash that honored shore 
Still o’er its waves the setting sun does his bright radiance pour. 
But on its dark blue surface glides no solitary bark, 

And o’er that once fair land, a cloud hangs heavily and dark. 
Heaven has received again to bless that pure and blessed One, 
His chosen martyred followers, too, victory o’er Death have won. 
But memory hangs, with cherished love, round scenes his pres- 
ence blest. 

And dwells with fond affection on the soil his footsteps pressed.” 

“I like very much to hear Herbert read poetry,” said Charles. 
“Mother, may he read those lines called ‘Early Recollections?’ 
They refer to scenes in our own town, Susan, and I know you 
will like them.” “Why should Susan like them more than the 
rest of us, Charles?” said Mary. “Oh, I think they are more 
suited to her taste.” “I must certainly hear them,” said Sus'an, 
“if it were only to know whether Charles has judged rightly of 
my taste.” “I will endeavor to find them tomorrow,” said Mrs. 
Wilson, “and I hope they will serve to amuse you.” At the first 
convenient opportunity Herbert continued the tale of the early 
Christians. 

The delicious coolness of the evening breeze, after a day of 
uncommon heat was, of itself, a temptation sufficient to draw 
many into the open air, and the streets of Rome were thronged 
with her citizens. Here might be seen the rich carriage, borne 
by slaves in livery, on whose soft and luxurious cushions reclined 
the haughty noble ; there, the patrician, with his train of attend- 
ants, and the wealthy plebean, conscious of his inferior rank, but 
emulating the proud bearing of his rival. Chairs and litters 
passed in quick succession, and freed men and slaves jostled each 
other. From the stately palaces resounded the notes of revelry 
and mirth, and from the theatres, the sounds of music and danc- 
ing. In the opening, before one of the courts, were gathered a 
crowd of listeners, around one of those gifted poets, who, with- 
out forethought, composed and recited upon any given subject, 
with ease and gracefulness, and are rewarded not only by grat- 
uities of money, but by the rapturous applause of their hearers. 
Through one of the streets passed a funeral procession, for, in 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


47 


Rome, all their funeral ceremonies were performed by torchlight 
and much pomp and parade was displayed upon the occasion in 
honor of the deceased. Thus life, with its shifting scenes, its 
hopes and fears and conflicting passions, were, at this time, in 
full contrast with the startling reality of death ; though few heed- 
ed the solemn warning. A hasty glance, some words of condo- 
lence or commendation of the deceased, and the proud pageant 
was forgotten. Amidst all this bustling confusion might be seen 
some, apparently persons of distinction, whose air of mystery and 
whispering conferences portended some event of importance. 
Two citizens met near the Temple of P'ortune; ‘‘Health and happi- 
ness, noble Varro,” said a rich patrician to a stately noble, “may 
the deities be propitious; have you heard the rumor?” “I have 
been witnessing the betrothal of my son to the daughter of Pub- 
lius Dentatus, and have heard no rumor. Of what nature?” “A 
most happy betrothal ; may their years be auspicious ! The re- 
ports are of a most astounding character. It is rumored that the 
Senate, in full council, have condemned Nero, and, that Servius 
Galba, so lately returned from Spain, will be chosen, by the sol- 
diery, as his successor.” “And, would Galba be the choice of the 
Senate, Licinius?” “Perhaps not, but he is the favorite of the 
legions from Spain, and beloved by the soldiers, generally, and 
they could find no fault with the choice, unless it be the severity 
of his manners.” “He is a good and honorable man,” said the 
elder, “but he will find the rank and title of Emperor but a thin 
gilding to the bitter pill of royalty he must sv/allow. But, the 
world will last our day, Licinius, let the wheel go round.” And 
they parted. At the turning of one of the streets, a knot of citi- 
zens were conferring. “How is this, Sempronius?” said one, 
“what will be the consequence of this decree of condemnation, of 
which we hear so many rumors? Will the Emperor abdicate, or 
have his enemies determined upon his death?” “Vengeance will 
not always sleep, fellow citizens,” said the one who was addressed ; 
“Who is not an enemy to the detestable vices of Nero? and what 
wickedness is there in the whole catalogue of crime which he has 
not committeed?” “Nay, Sempronius,” said a man with a stern and 
forbidding countenance, “he has done good service to the State, 
bv exterminating those Christians.” “By our household deities,” 
said another, “I know not that, for the sect is like the Hydra of 
old, as fast as one is exterminated, as you say, a score appear in 
his place. I am for stopping these executions at once, and then 
we shall see if this heresy will not die of itself.” “But, said the 
first speaker, “will not Nero set the Senate at defiance? He 
has his favorites, and may yet make a stand.” “Not so,” said 
Sempronius, “his nature is cowardly, and at the first intimation 


48 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


of danger, he would shrink from it with terror. He needs no 
accuser but his own guilty conscience ; he has waded in the blood 
of innocence, and will yet be deluged in its avenging waves.” The 
company dispersed, each in his several path. 

With a hurried step, the freedman of Nero was seen ascending 
the steps of the palace ; he was greeted by one of his fellow ser- 
vants, “Whither so fast, Anicetus? One would think the 
avenger was at thy heels.” “He is,” said the freedman. “There 
is something wrong in the wind,” said the questioner, “there is 
some cause for so much stir and commotion in the city,” continued 
he, addressing one of the guards, “and the military, without the 
walls are in motion, for the trumpets have sounded.” “Well,” 
said the other, “let what will come, my duty lies here.” 

We will now return to the entrance of Lucius Flavius into the 
apartment of Nero, in the imperial palace. With a firm and 
lofty step, but a respectful demeanor, the young and noble de- 
fender of innocence, advanced, supporting the sister of Curtius, 
who, though her complexion was pale, and her form tremulous 
with emotion, shrank not from the haughty and insolent regard of 
the tyrant. “How is this, my Lord Lucius; what fair votary of 
Venus have you introduced to our presence with so little cere- 
mony? Methinks some more formal introduction were befitting 
so much beauty.” “Innocence, my Lord, the Emperor, may be 
always confident in its own resources, and sorrow has claims su- 
perior to all formal observances. The maiden before you is the 
sister of Quintius Curtius, and her errand is to solicit, even yet, 
the life and freedom of her brother.” Cleone slid from the arm 
of her protector, and bent her knee before Nero. “We are 
orphans,” said she, “my brother and myself, children of one of 
Rome’s noblest citizens. Our father fought his country’s battles, 
defended her liberty and gloried in her prosperity. Our ancestors 
gave their lives and treasures for her benefit, and my brother 
would yield his heart’s blood for the welfare of his native land ; 
we are alone in the world ; noble Emperor, grant me the life of 
my brother.” The sweet pleading tones of her voice, the earnest 
expressions of her eyes, would, it would seem, have produced 
some feeling, even in the hard heart of Nero; such was not the 
case. With a malignant sneer, he said ; “And so permit him to 
convert you, fair damsel, to the faith of the Nazarene? By the 
beard of Silenus, that would be sacrilege to bind so alluring an 
object in the galling chains of that cynical sect. Not so, my 
beautiful grace ; love for our country influences us to cleanse it of 
these fanatical reformers, who are attempting to subvert its estab- 
lished principles, and overturn our faith in a religion which has 
stood the test of ages. He must suffer for his obstinacy ; but, for 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


49 


you, fair maiden, you shall be under especial care and protection.” 
With an indignant gesture, Flavius attempted to raise Cleone, but, 
resisting the effort, her eyes flashing, and her voice becoming 
more firm, “Yet a moment, haughty Emperor, your life is in my 
power,” — - “What! ho, help here, slaves!” “Stay, Emperor,” 
said Flavius, “there is a secret conspiracy against your life, acci- 
dentally discovered. She only can tell you the names of the con- 
spirators, and its details. Give to her prayers the life of her 
brother, and your life may be preserved.” “Refuse me,” said 
Cleone, “and, so sure as you are now living, so certain is your de- 
struction.” A scowl of rage distorted the countenance of Nero. 
“There are ways, my haughty young dame, to compel such re- 
fractory tempers to confession.” “Before your cruel purpose 
could be executed,” said Cleone, “the time would have elapsed 
when your life mJght be saved. Death is fearful to all, were it 
only for the uncertainty of the prospect beyond. Is your con- 
science so pure that you dare look upon its near approach with- 
out alarm? Will you not shrink from encountering its gloom, to 
you the dark mystery of the future?” She was interrupted by 
the hasty entrance of the freedman, who, bending lov/ before the 
Emperor, addressed to him some communication, which, first 
suffusing his face with crimson, soon left it of a deadly paleness. 
Fear and irresolution marked his features. He gave some hasty 
orders, and appeared lost in thought for a short time. At length, 
seeming to have formed a determination, he turned to Flavius. 
“Young lord,” said he, “time does not admit of delay; let this 
maiden give me, in a few words, the outline of this conspiracy, 
and then, upon one condition, I will release the Christian.” “Give 
us an order to that effect, my lord Emperor, and you shall know 
all,” and, while Cleone trembled between hope and fear, Nero 
wrote upon a leaf of his tablets, “Release the Christian prisoner, 
Quintius Curtius,” and tearing it from the book, affixed his seal, 
and gave the order to Flavius. Hurry and dismay marked his 
motions, and, turning to Cleone, he commanded her to make the 
disclosure. In a clear, distinct manner, she related the circum- 
stances, and mentioned Cains Piso as the principal conspirator. 
He muttered between his teeth, “Let me but escape this first dan- 
ger, and I will defy Piso and his retainers.” “Go,” said he, aloud, 
“leave the presence, yet, stay, Lucius Flavius, the condition is not 
vet complied with.” In a low constrained voice, he said, “I have 
just received intelligence of an insurrection in the army without 
the walls, and that the traitors have expressed their determination 
of deposing me, and electing Servius Galba. I know not how far 
the discontent extends, perhaps the Senate have dared to connive 
at it,” and his frame trembled, and he grew more deadly pale. 


50 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


‘‘The condition I make with you is, that, if they presume to aim 
at my life, you will intercede. Use your influence with Galba, 
do you understand, do you engage to this ?” “I do,'’ said Flavius, 
“as I hope for mercy myself.” “Enough,” said Nero. Almost 
dreading the reality of this sudden and happy change, Cleone left 
the presence of this dreaded tyrant of Rome; and he was left 
alone with his miserable thoughts; the remembrance of the past, 
the horrors of his dark deeds of cruelty, mingling with dismal 
forebodings of future retribution. Starting in his hurried walk 
he listened with breathless attention to the distant sounds in the 
city. Again, pacing the apartment in agitation, he would mutter 
low and almost inaudible exclamations, “No guests arrive; that 
is, of it itself, suspicious ; the traitors ! They will all forsake me ; 
yes, I will leave the city, without delay; but, whither? To my 
country house; that will do, and let the excitement subside. It 
was well to conciliate this Flavius by releasing the Christian ; his 
influence may do much ; that Sybil ! Her prophecy weighs heavy 
upon me; where have I seen her dark visage before?” Then he 
threw himself upon his couch; but, directly springing up, “What 
is this?” said he, “I seem sinking into an abyss? Is there a future 
after death ? Ho ! Anicetus.” As the freedman entered, he said, 
“Are all things prepared? Have you secured my treasures?” 
“All is prepared, my lord, and waiting your command.” “You, 
at least, Anicetus, have no reason to complain of me; can I trust 
you?” “I will be faithful to you till the last, my master.” “It is 
well,” said Nero, “hasten our immediate departure; if I live, you 
shall not repent your fidelity.” 


Chapter VIII 


I know not if it were so, but to my mind it seems 
As if the grass were greener then, and brighter the sun 
beams. 

“My dear mother,” said Herbert, as Mrs. Wilson took her 
usual place the next evening, “we desire your opinion. Does the 
fact that we read this story at intervals lessen its interest?” “It 
would not in my opinion,” said Mrs. Wilson. “I think a story, 
read in this manner, affords more real pleasure and instruction 
than the common practice, when the faculties become tired by the 
continued strain. It is a species of intoxication which, after the 
excitement is ended, leaves the mind tired and exhausted by over- 
exertion.” “I dare say you are right, dear aunt,” said Susan, “but 
I confess that I was disposed to quarrel with such a truth when 
Herbert told us he must be absent this evening, and I do not like 
to have Charles disappointed,” “Charles must learn to bear dis- 
appointments,” said his mother, smiling at his earnest and sober 
look. “I have found the lines you wished to have read, my son, 
and we will spend the evening in reading them.” “But,” said 
Charles, “I wish the good young Christian was released from his 
dreary dungeon.” “Never mind, dear Charles,” said Herbert, 
“the anticipation of happiness is very pleasant, you know.” “Yes,” 
said Elizabeth, “but you remember we have the very best author- 
ity for saying that ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’ ” “There 
seems to be no alternative,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and we will en- 
deavor to evade this heart-sickness by diverting your attention 
to other objects, even the pleasant scenes of our own home.” 

So soon as they were all in readiness, Elizabeth read the follow- 
ing 


REMINISCENCES OF LYNN 

The remembrance of our youth 
Is as a summer day, and brighter gleams 
As the dark shadow of our life grows deep. 

There is no home so dear to us as that 
Which reared our childhood, and its pleasant scenes 
Rise, dear to memory’e eye. Those old trees 
Under whose shade our merry sports went on 
Are dear as ancient friends. My early home ! 


52 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


While memory lives, thy peaceful, happy scenes 
Will never be forgot. From that green lane 
Extends a pathway, bordered with wild shrubs. 

Ascending to the summit of a Rock, 

That Rock of fame, surnamed the “Lover’s Leap.” 

Not this, the Rock of old, whence Sappho sprang. 

And, plunging in the cold and pitiless flood. 

Ended, at once, her love, and her sad life ; 

For no deep water, flowing at the base 
Of this steep Rock, offers so quick a cure 
For hopeless love, nor do I know, in truth. 

That hapless lover ever tried this leap ; 

But, so much have I heard, that an old cow, 

Moved by some cause which never can be known. 
Approached too near the brink, perhaps to graze 
Upon the scanty grass, or the wild box 
Which grew among its fissures, and, sad fate ! 

By a misstep, losing her balance, fell. 

And lost her precious life ; precious, no doubt 
To some good, thrifty farmer’s wife, whose store 
Of wholesome milk was thus diminished quite. 

But nought have I to do with these sad tales 
Of death ; I love to think of those bright, happy days. 
When, with a gay and happy troop of friends. 

All happy, we patrolled the pleasant path 

And rested on that Rock, and sang sweet songs 

And laughed and talked, and wove gay wreaths of flowers. 

How pleasant ’twas to watch the different shades 

In the green foliage of the large, thick trees 

Encircling the gray Rock, and mark the view 

Of the rich landscape, stretching far and wide. 

While, in the distance, rolled the vast expanse 
Of ocean, mingling with the dark blue sky. 

There is another Rock, not like this one. 

Surrounded by green shade, but smooth and bare. 

And Fligh Rock is its name ; a beacon this. 

Seen from afar, and, from its highest point, 

A lovely prospect opens to the sight. 

On the declivity a Building stood. 

An object of much awe to children’s eyes. 

The Powder House, a magazine of wrath. 

Which, when a child, I almost feared to touch. 

Lest all its hidden terrors would explode ; 

And, lower yet, an Aqueduct, whose spring 
Of clear, cold water, was a welcome treat 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


53 


On a warm summer day ; years bring great change, 
Yet much I hope that spot is still unchanged. 

One strong remembrance of that pleasant spot 
Now presses on my mind, for, at its foot, 

Upon the eastern side, stood a lone house, 

Deserted, too, it looked, but ’twas not so ; 

For, though no pleasant signs of busy life 
Were there, yet its patched windows showed 
Some one had there sought shelter from the cold. 
Twas the far-famed Moll Pitcher’s house, the scene 
Of many an hour of mirth, and some of pain. 

The would-be prophetess, in sullen mood, 

Would sometimes vex her votaries, boding ill 
Of future times. I well remember once 
Standing upon that Rock, with a gay group 
Of young companions, and in merry play. 

Joining with them in rolling down the steep 
A shower of stones toward Moll Pitcher’s house ; 

But, as we played, the wind began to rise. 

And some faint hearts among our little clan 
Said the old witch had raised the wind in spite. 

Our hearts beat quick with childish fear. At once 
We left our sport and, running down the hill. 

In the dread fear that the weird woman’s rage 
Would yet o’ertake us, slackened not our speed 
Until the friendly shelter of a house 
Received our weary little frames at last. 

Let not the wise deride our infant fear. 

Where is the heart that has not beat sometime 
At some dark, superstitious thought of ill 
Impending ; or the cheek that has not blanched 
At some dread mystery yet unexplained ? 

Where are those gay and loved companions now ? 

Do they yet cluster round the same bright hearth 
That blessed their childhood ? Do they linger still 
Among those lovely scenes of early youth 
So fresh in my remembrance ? Ah ! how few 
Are left to cherish the old memories ! 

Some, the dear playmates of my youthful days. 

Rest in that sacred spot where the tall trees 
Wave a kind requiem o’er the loved remains 
Of many a cherished one, and others roam 
To the far western land or sunny south 
Where other friends, or other loves, are theirs. 

A changing world is this, and if our hearts 


54 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Are here, how frail our tenure holds. 

’Twould seem, in those young, happy days 
There dwelt no sin or sorrow ; simple joys 
Were ours ; the summer morning walk. 

When the fresh air was perfumed with sweet flowers, 
The wild Rose and the Sweetbrier, the sweet Fern, 
The Bayberry and Box ; all lent their aid. 

There was an ancient wall whose mossy stones 
Were almost hid by the luxuriant growth 
Of the wild Grape ; and the green spreading leaf 
Of the low blackberry, climbing o’er its top ; 

While, interspersed among its kindred sweets, 

The rich, black thimbleberry found a place. 

There have I strayed, what time the glorious sun 
Rose from the ocean, and his splendid hues 
Crimsoned the wide horizon, and supplied 
My morning bowl of milk with a rich treat 
Of juicy berries, breathing the fresh air. 

Inhaling health with every passing breeze. 

And even when winter, with its freezing breath. 
Chilled the whole atmosphere, when the green shade 
And the sweet flowers were gone, new pleasures came. 
The smooth and polished ice, the hard, white snow. 
Sparkling in the bright beams of the clear sun. 
Afforded sport for many a winter day. 

But when, at evening, the gay, cheerful fire 
Called us around it by its kindly warmth. 

When dear relations and loved friends v/ere met. 
Encircling its clear blaze, then was the hour 
Most coveted, the hour when harmless mirth. 
Improving converse and the merry glee 
Of happy childhood joined in sweet accord. 

How often have I listened at that hour 
To the sweet song, the lively jest, and oft 
To the sad tale of shipwreck, or some tale 
Of other times, when our forefathers came 
From distant lands, where wicked rulers sought 
Their overthrow, and came to worship God 
In these, then, dreary wilds, in their own way. 

How the dark, stealthy Indian sought their lives ; 
Sickness and famine preyed upon their health. 

And death removed their loved and dearest ones ; 

But how their God sustained them thro’ their grief 
And made them a great people, and that now, 

When we behold their populous towns, their lands 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


55 


Of rich fertility, and happy homes, 

We know the Lord had led them here for good. 

And prospered all their hands had sought to do. 

’Tis the sweet morn of early youth that fits 
Our hearts for useful life ; let but our home 
Be the resort of love and peace, of trust 
In the wise providence of God, and years 
Will not efface the deep, strong memory. 

Though we may wander from the rightful way 
We never shall forget the well taught way. 

And conscience, like a trusty friend, will point 
To the abode of peace and lead us there. 

Land of our birth ! our own America ! 

May thy fair sons, as plants of goodly growth. 

Arise ; and as the polished corner-stones. 

Thy lovely daughters be thy pride and boast. 

“You shall select poetry for me, Charles,” said Susan, “since 
you so justly appreciate my taste. In the summer we will retrace 
these pleasant scenes.” “I know them all,” said Charles, “and 
many more I will show you, Susan.” “There are many lovely 
spots around us,” said Elizabeth, and the history of some of them 
connected with the early settlement of the town.” “Do you re- 
member, Charles, that in our ride last summer I pointed out to 
you a delightful situation situated upon a point of land projecting 
into the ocean?” “Yes, mother, and Elizabeth said it would not 
be so pleasant in the winter on account of its exposure to the sea. 
I will relate a circumstance connected with that situation, which 
must conclude our evening’s entertainment. An English gentle- 
man, the younger son of a noble family, determined to leave his 
native land and settle in America. His fortune, which was not 
sufficient to support him in England in that style and opulence 
which he thought consistent with the dignity of his family, would 
be ample in America for all the luxuries of life. He had married 
a young and lovely wife and did not find much difficulty in per- 
suading her to follow his fortunes; but she overestimated her 
strength when she bade farewell to the home of her birth, the 
friends of her childhood. She suffered much from sickness dur- 
ing her voyage and, weakened both in body and mind, landed 
upon this, to her, a home of strangers. That sickness of the 
heart, which we emphatically term homesickness, seized her ; she 
became melancholy and unhappy and even the soothing affection 
of her husband failed to disperse the deep gloom of her mind. 
With the hope that change of scene would benefit and amuse her, 
he made frequent excursions in the country around Salem, where 


56 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


they then resided, and one of these was in the neighborhood of 
the situation I showed you. She immediately recognized a re- 
semblance to the scenes of her youth, her first home. The man- 
sion of her birth stood upon the seashore, the sound of the rush- 
ing waters was like the lullaby of her infancy, and the rugged 
rocks were associated in her ideas with those around her own 
loved home in England. Delighted that she had found a spot 
congenial to her feelings, her husband caused the building which 
you saw to be erected, and, adopting it as another home, she be- 
came tranquil and happy, lived beloved and respected and reared 
a family of children, some of whose descendants still reside upon 
the same spot.” ‘Tt is not always local situation which causes 
this deep attachment to home,” said Mary. “It is wisely ordered 
that it should not be so,” said Mrs. Wilson.” “Mother,” said 
Charles, “may I repeat those lines upon our native land?” “Do 
so,” said his mother. 

“There is no passion in the human breast 
So deep implanted as the love of home, 

’Midst the rude mountains, where eternal snows 
Rest on their towering height, or, hanging o’er, 

Threaten each passing traveler with death. 

In the secluded valleys dwell a race 

Of hardy mountaineers, whose lowly huts 

Are to them dearer than the whole world’s wealth, 

And, on Arabia’s sandy desert soil. 

Where no rich verdure greets the passing eye. 

Where no cool, murmuring stream salutes the ear. 

The wild Bedouin wanders, bold and free. 

Boasting his home, the happiest and the best. 

And claiming for himself Heaven’s richest gift. 

The gift of Freedom. The fierce Indian tribes. 

Panting for war, gaining their daily food 
By the precarious chase, their hardy frames 
Inured to hunger ; yet, with strongest ties 
Cling to their native land ; it is their Home. 

Far in the frozen regions of the North, 

The dwarfish native of those dreary plains 
Turns, with disdain, from him whose kindly zeal 
Would lure him from his cold and gloomy land. 

While, under burning skies, in torrid climes. 

The dull inhabitant, in calm content, 

Dreams through his life in sluggish indolence. 

Nor cares, nor wishes for a happier home.” 


Chapter IX 


“How’s this, boy ? Why are the props removed from this frail 
plant ?’’ 

“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, de- 
pending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.’’ 
“Aye, ’tis e’en so” ; and thus, with watchful care. 

Our Heavenly Father takes away our props, 

And, if we grow too wild, with judgment true 
And constant love, he prunes till all is right. 

At the first convenient opportunity Herbert resumed the tale of 
the early Christians. 

From the scenes of confusion we have described, we will re- 
turn to the Appian palace, where lay, in peaceful rest, the re- 
mains of its honored master. The domestics were busied in pre- 
paring the funeral honors for one, so reverened and beloved ; some 
in arranging boughs of Cypress before the doors ; others in adorn- 
ing, with rare and beautiful flowers, the couch of the deceased, or 
in distributing aromatic plants about the apartment. The soft 
night breeze stole through the open windows, the air seeming to 
breath the sweet peace which surrounded the deathbed of the 
aged saint. The heart of one mourner in this quiet mansion, was 
bowed down with grief, but she v/as not left alone with her sor- 
rows ; the kind recluse remained with her, shared her grief, and 
sought to soothe her anguish. Absorbed in their anxieties, they 
sat in the portico, which commanded a view of the imperial pal- 
ace, and, upon the steps, with her dark eyes fixed upon them, 
sat the female, whose predictions caused the guilty tyrant to 
tremble; but the wild expression of her eye was now softened, 
and her whole aspect changed. “He has gone to his rest,” said 
she, and light and gentle will the sod repose upon his breast, for 
it was the abode of kindness, and sweet will be the requiem over 
his remains, for it will be the lamentation of the poor and af- 
flicted.” Then, turning to Sister Helena, to whom she did not 
seem a stranger, she said, “The spirit of the good and just must 
ascend to the heaven of your faith ; but where is the final resting 
place of the guilty soul?” “Mother,” said she, “there is time 
left for us, who are still inhabitants of earth, to repent and for- 
.sake our sins.” “Say you so?” said the woman, and her earnest 
gaze and trembling limbs betrayed her emotion. “But what is 
lengthened time to me? Listen to the tale of one whose life has 


58 A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 

been a long, long day of misery. Thessaly was the land of my 
birth ; my infancy was bright as the dreams of the morning ; but 
the destroyer came ; the Romans, like the ravening wolves, poured 
upon our plains ; my father fell, defending the home of my child- 
hood, and my mother, with the wretched being, before you, was 
enslaved by the conquerors. Borne down by misery, she sank be- 
neath the weight, and, while exposed in your market place, for 
sale to the highest bidder, I saw my last friend expire, and, the 
unfeeling crowd estimated the loss to the owner. I stood alone 
amid the multitude, my heart swelled in agony, but hate for the 
oppressor, and desire of revenge prevailed over all ; I clasped my 
throat, that I, too, might die and disappoint, still more, our brutal 
enslaver, but, as I tightened my hold, and all things grew dim 
around me, a hand grasped my arm and a voice of compassion 
saluted my ear. After a few words with my master, I became 
the property of Marcus Curtius ; he pitied my distress ; he caused 
the remains of my mother to be interred, and, each day, her child 
was permitted to deck her grave with flowers. I was reared with 
kindness, but, to, all, save my protector and his immediate fam- 
ily, my heart was bitter with hatred. In the dreams of my dis- 
turbed slumbers, the home of my happiness would appear before 
me, its fertile fields, its rich groves of olives and figs, the vine- 
covered porch, the sweet songs of my country ; then the scene of 
my father’s death, my mother’s dying glance, and I awoke in 
agony and despair; revenge in any form was the only object of 
my thought. This passion I nurtured, and when civil wars 
drenched the country in blood, when the family of my protector 
was dispersed, opportunities of gratifying it were daily presented. 
I did not embrue my hands in blood, but my heart exulted in the 
woes of the enslavers of my country; I did not take life, but I 
did not save it, when it was in my power. Years rolled on; I 
had no home, for I abhorred the haunts of mankind. The moun- 
tain cave was my shelter, the wild fruits of the mountain my food ; 
but, almost unknown to myself one tie was yet unsevered. The 
mild glance of pity, bestowed upon me, when helpless and alone 
in the world, was never forgotten, and the occasional kind word, 
and look of sympathy had sank deep into my heart. I still cher- 
ished a kindly remembrance of the house of him who had saved 
me, perhaps, from a worse fate than death. In my wanderings I 
encountered a being as wretched as myself ; she taught me to 
gratify my ruling passion by attempting to dive into futurity, to 
render the life of man more wretched, by foretelling the events 
which are to come. In the depths of the forest, in the recesses of 
the mountain would we invoke the power of fiends, with the malice 
of demons would we prepare spells to impose upon the credulity 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


59 


of the ignorant, and, with horrid glee, aggravate the grief of 
mankind, of the wretched. Is there hope,” said she, rising, “for 
such as I am, with the God of purity and love whom you wor- 
ship?” “Even so,” was the mild and soothing response of Sister 
Helena. “He has been leading you by a way which you knew not. 
He has been removing all your stays, that you may be stayed only 
upon Him ; your father, country, mother, the protectors of your 
youth, every joy and comfort, and now, at the close of a long life. 
He calls you to Himself. Though the sins be as crimson, they 
shall be white as wool.” The Sybil bent her head ; the sweet hope 
of mercy softened her heart; all was quiet around, among the 
aged trees, whose branches shaded the venerable mansion, a 
nightingale had chosen her seat, and, at intervals, poured forth 
her soft melody. During the silence, solemn music arose from 
the apartments within, and a chorus of voices sang the following 
hymn : 


Mourn not for him, whose lengthened years 
Have closed in holy peace ; 

His home is now where neither tears 
Nor sorrows find a place. 

Like as the sun, in glory bright 
Sank ’neath the glowing sky. 

To rise again, with morning light 
And greet us in the sky. 

So bright, so peaceful, closed his day. 

So glorious will he rise, 

Jesus has pointed him the way 
To bliss beyond the skies. 

The sounds died away, and when the aged woman raised her 
head, her moistened eyes expressed her emotion. “To find ob- 
jects,” she continued, “on whom to wreak any vengeance I again 
sought the abodes of man; my predictions were heard with awe 
and terror ; many a young heart, trobbing with hope and visions 
of bliss, have I caused to beat with dreaded anticipations of evil, 
and blasted many a dream of happiness. My unhallowed occupa- 
tion was attended with danger, and, at one time my life was in 
jeopardy. I was threatened with torture and death, and, pub- 
licly exposed, was upon the point of meeting a deserved doom, 
when Nero, passing the spot, caused inquiries to be made as to the 
cause of the tumult. His was a heart exulting in all the evil 
passions of human nature, and the being at enmity with all the 
world might claim kindred sympathy with him. He ordered my 
release, and, when with sullen disdain, I denounced him, and fore- 


6o 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


told his crimes, he jeeringly said I should be under his protec- 
tion, and forbade any interference with my vocation. But, amidst 
all my misery and crime, I did not forget the family which had 
shown me kindness. I followed their career in weal or woe ; their 
enemies were doubly mine. Wandering in search of food, at one 
time a fierce wolf sprang from his lurking place, and an instant 
more would have ended my guilty life, but an unerring arrow, 
from an unseen hand, struck his heart, and he lay dead at my 
feet. A young Roman emerged from the thicket, and my eye im- 
mediately recognized, in his noble countenance, one of the only 
race whose features raised a kindly feeling in my breast. He 
gazed upon my haggard form with wonder. “Give God glory,” 
said he, “He has saved you from a dreadful death.” “My life 
is a burden,” was my sullen answer, “I give thanks to no being. 
I own no God, and man is my deadly enemy.” Again I saw the 
same pitying expression of countenance, which had saved me 
when a child. “If,” said he, “man has injured you, God is your 
avenger; if you have injured him, God is your judge, and if you 
are wretched, God will be your comforter.” It was the son of 
your love ; for whose blood the tyrant thirsted, who saved me from 
the savage beast ; whose words first caused a ray of hope to enter 
this dark heart.” “And must this son, perish?” said the mother, 
in the piercing accents of grief, “must I never again see him ? and 
my Cleone,” and anguish checked her utterance. “The hours of 
the life of his persecutor are numbered,” said the Sybil, “and not 
by my vain art do I know this. The city is even now in commo- 
tion ; the Senate have decreed his death ; hear ye not those sounds 
of wild uproar? Hear ye not the shouts of the soldiers?” They 
listened with intense attention, and the distant cries of “Death to 
the tyrant” were plainly distinguishable amidst the hoarse clamor 
of the mob; and occupied by the most anxious suspense, it was 
some moments ere the matron observed the sinking form of the 
recluse and her deathly paleness. She was prevented from sum- 
moning assistance by her sudden arousing to exertion. “His 
death, mother?” said she, “didst thou say his death? Will they 
not leave him the possibility of repentance? Would I might see 
him, even now!” “To what purpose,” said the aged Sybil, “his 
heart is as the flinty rock upon which the wild waves of the ocean 
have beaten for ages. Thy life might be the forfeit.” “Mother ! 
the smile and word of kindly sympathy sank deep; never to be 
eradicated from thy remembrance; Nero! this tyrant of Rome; 
this monster so detested by humanity, was kind to her, who now 
would sacrifice life so she might kindle a spark of hope in his be- 
nighted soul.” The sounds from the now fully aroused multi- 
tudes of Rome were increasing to deafening outcries, and the at- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


6l 


tendants surrounded their mistress. “There are footsteps ap- 
proaching,’’ said one, and, issuing from the shaded pathway, 
Cleone and the faithful domestic, who had, with Lucius Flavius, 
accompanied her to the palace, stood before them. The heartfelt 
thanksgiving of her mother, as she clasped her in a close em- 
brace, the joyous welcome of the domestics, the tears of gratitude, 
which stood upon the cheeks of the recluse, seemed even to awake 
sympathy in the stern heart of the Sybil. “But your brother, my 
Cleone?” “He will be saved, my own dear mother. Nero has 
commanded his release, and he will soon be restored to us.” The 
silmultaneous burst of triumph around, showed the affection 
borne to their noble young master, and words would fail to ex- 
press the joy and thankfulness which pervaded the breast of the 
pious mother. “I leave you for a space, dear friends,” said 
Helena, “I leave you, rejoicing in the grace of God, and if we 
meet no more on earth, let me greet you in a happier home above. 
There,” said she, raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, “there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor sighing.” “And thou 
art going?” said the Sybil.” “To perform my duty,” said she, 
and disappeared in the thicket. 

At this time the principle streets of Rome presented a spec- 
tacle of intense interest. A legion of the army, bearing 
the Imperial Eagle, the long tufts of their helmets waving in 
the breeze, preceded a car, guarded by cavalry, whose burnished 
armor reflected every ray of light, in which was seated Servius 
Galba, the newly elected Emperor of Rome. At intervals the 
brazen trumpets poured forth their triumphant notes, the deafen- 
ing shouts of thousands swelled upon the air, and mingled cries 
of victory and execration burst from the countless multitude. As 
the imposing procession approached the palace of Nero, the tu- 
mult increased, the rumor spread that its detested master had 
fled, and the terrible ery of “death” resounded on every side. 
The brilliant illumination of the splendid building had faded into 
gloom, the music had ceased, and its inhabitants had dispersed in 
terror. Such are the vicissitudes of greatness. The despotic 
Emperor, whose mandates, but a few hours before, were obeyed 
with servile fear, to whose debasing pleasures the riches of the 
world were subservient, and for the gratification of whose malice 
thousands had expired in agonizing tortures, was now a despised 
fugitive, a proscribed criminal, proscribed alike by the laws, as 
well as the justice of his injured country. Aipidst this tumult, 
with hearts throbbing with praise and thanksgiving to God, the 
voung Christians, after Curtius had been so unexpectedly re- 
leased from his prison, parted for a short time ; Curtius to make 
glad the hearts nearest and dearest to him by his return home, and 


62 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Flavius to fulfil his engagement with Nero, to intercede with the 
new Emperor for the life of the miserable and despicable tyrant. 

Avoiding the excited populace, two persons had, by the most 
obscure passages, approached the Imperial Palace; the one an 
aged man, wrapped in a dark tunic and supporting his steps by a 
staff, the other a female, closely enveloped and cautiously shielded 
from observation. As they drew near the colossal entrance their 
course was arrested by a sentry and, on requiring admittance to 
the presence of Nero, they were answered by derision. 

“Admittance for a grey cowl ! by my faith, no ; but for this 
gear,’’ said he, “I will warrant a passage, though shaded by a 
hood and enshrouded in a frieze mantle.” 

“Peace, rude brawler,” said the aged man, “attend to thy voca- 
tion.” 

“My vocation now,” said the fierce soldier, “is to silence such 
greybeards as thou,” but, as he raised his truncheon, the female, 
raising her hood, and stepping before her companion, said : 

“Wouldst thou harm one to whom the Father of all things has 
alotted so long a term of life? Suffer us to pass to the presence 
of Nero and accept the thanks of one who has no other guerdon 
to bestow.” 

Struck by the transcendant beauty of the suppliant and awed by 
her manner, he lowered his weapon, but still refused admittance 
to her companion. 

“If his tongue wag not too freely,” said he, “yonder bench 
may afford him a resting place ; for thee, fair one, if it chooseth 
the, thou mayst try thy fortune within, but, by the powers of 
Erebus, I warn you not to pursue the venture. Dost thou hear 
the commotion and uproar of the city? and the near approach of 
the tumult? Within the palace there is confusion: the lights are 
extinguished and, methinks, there is danger in the wind. Best 
retrace thy way, pretty one, with thy crusty fellow-traveler ; his 
journey of life is too nearly ended to be an able protector for 
thee.” 

“If there is danger, friend, why dost thou stay to encounter it?” 

“I am a Roman soldier,” said he, proudly ; my post is here and, 
come what may, I shall retain it.” 

“I, too, soldier, have my post of duty; for thee, father, I pray 
thee return by the unfrequented path we traced on our wav 
hither.” 

“I leave thee not, my daughter,” said the old man, but will rest 
my wearied limbs a brief period ; in the meantime, may the Lord 
bless thy purpose !” 

“Amen, holy father,” said the recluse, for with the hope that 
at this moment of terror the stubborn heart of Nero might be 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


63 

led to contrition, she, who had once been as the day-star of his 
life, had now sought his presence, fearless of her own risk, in 
confronting his revengeful rage. 

A slave guided her steps through the lofty halls, whose arched 
ceilings glittered with representations of the starry firmament, 
while showers of sweet fragrance filled the air with odors. Ere 
they had passed far they encountered many slaves who, with 
hurried steps, were hastening to the entrance. 

“How go matters now, Curio?” said the guide. 

“Lacca has returned,” said the one addressed. “The Legions 
are in motion ; Servius Galba is proclaimed Emperor and Nero 
has fled. Save thyself, Arrius, hearest thou not the approach of 
the insurgents?” 

“Nero fled !” said the startled guide. “A truce to thine errand, 
then, fair lady. Thou art too late.” 

“Too late indeed,” she said, clasping her hands in anguish. 
“Yet, stay, friend.” It was vain, for the alarmed servitor had fol- 
lowed his fellow slaves ; and uncertain and distressed, she stood 
irresolute, which way to shape her course. At this moment the 
Sybil stood before her. 

“Said I not his hour of mercy had passed?” said she. “A night 
of hopeless gloom has closed around him, and clouds envelope 
the sweet star of mercy. Said I not so ?” 

“Hope is not lost, mother,” said the recluse. “Shall we limit 
the power of the Omnipotent? There is yet hope, even for Nero.” 
The roar of inflamed and furious thousands now broke upon their 
ears. The Palatine hill was surrounded and, with speed unpar- 
alelled in one so aged, the Sybil drew her companion along a 
narrow entrance to a secluded path which led through the mag- 
nificent gardens of the palace, now deserted by all save strag- 
gling bands of fugitives. “Stay, mother,” said the recluse, “Fa- 
ther Paulo is left behind. He awaits us near yon column.” As 
they drew near the aged priest rose from his reclining posture. 
“Blessings on His Name, daughter, for that he hath returned 
thee in safety. Let no harrowing fears perplex thee for him 
whom thou hast sought to save ; he hath sown the wind and he 
must reap the whirlwind. “His Holy Name be blessed.” said the 
recluse ; and, in silence, they passed on their way. The soft plash- 
ing of the fountains, whose lucid drops sparkled in the moon- 
beams, the dewy freshness of the lawns, and the gentle breathing 
of the night air contrasted with the wild fury behind them and 
the storm of unbridled vengeance which now encompassed the 
palace and shook even its foundation, soothed the perturbed spirit 
and hushed each murmuring passion to peace. 


64 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Herbert closed the book. “It must be deeply interesting,” said 
he, “to visit this ancient city. Its scenes are so intimately con- 
nected with events of history which are familiar to us from 
childhood, and so many of its features must remain unaltered. 
The ancient tombs are still there, the same old pavements are fre- 
quently unearthed which were trod by those heroes whose names 
are familiar to us as ‘household words,’ and whose stones have 
been swept by the royal purple. The Tiber will still pursue its 
winding course, and the lofty Appenines still bound the prospect, 
although time demolishes its mighty works of art.” “Was not 
Virgil born under the Roman government, Herbert?” said 
Charles. “He was, and highly favored by Augustus Caesar, the 
most powerful monarch of Rome.” “Do you think there were 
such delightful rural scenes in those times as he describes in 
his Pastorals?” said Susan. “In the earlier days of Rome,” said 
Herbert, “before luxury and its attendant vices had enervated 
and destroyed the energies of the country, the employments of 
the husbandman and shepherd formed the principal occupations 
of the people; to excel in agriculture was to acquire a title to 
public respect, and some of their most powerful dictators and 
bravest commanders were ‘taken from the plough.’ At the time 
to which our story refers, husbandry was regarded with less 
respect than in former times. The cultivation of the fields was 
often committed to the care of slaves ; the introduction of foreign 
luxuries had paved the way for crime in all its forms, and from 
that time the progress of the nation was downward. The pleas- 
ant scenes of country life, described by Virgil, were probably 
drawn from nature, embellished, perhaps, with a poet’s license.” 
“But the beauty of these Arcadian scenes,” said Mrs. Wilson, 
“is associated in our minds with the idea of innocence and 
virtue ; we believe they were happy, surrounded by these scenes 
of rural beauty, because they were good.” “True,” said Her- 
bert, “let us but imagine their delightful groves, their breezy 
hills and green pastures to be the resorts of vice and crime, the 
charm is broken at once ; we no longer dream of the beauty of 
the ‘spreading beech,’ the rich taste of the ‘golden apples,’ or the 
sweet munnuring of the ‘mossy fountains’ ; instead of the bright 
sunshine of peace and happiness, the gloomy clouds of sin and 
misery would disfigure every beauty.” “Such is the effect of 
virtue,” said his mother, every charm is heightened by its pres- 
ence, and every beauty destroyed by its absence.” “How pleas- 
ant,” said Susan, “to read Virgil’s description of a northern win- 
ter, over a bright fire !” “The pleasures of his winter evenings, 
however,” said Mary, “were confined to frolic and play, and their 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


65 


refreshments to ‘acid cider and beer’ ; how different from our 
evenings, where there are ‘fireside enjoyments, home-born hap- 
piness.’ ” “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “and, to continue your quota- 
tion : 


“ ‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull ; 
Not such as, with a frown, forbids the play 
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’ ” 


Chapter X 


The seeds of virtue should be sown ; 

God will protect their growth. 

Circumstances intervened to prevent the continuation of the 
‘"Tale” for a short time but, on the evening of the Sabbath day, 
Herbert read a sacred poem upon the subject of Christ’s re- 
storing the sight of the blind. 


Land of a chosen race, the gift of God, 

Whose soil the feet of holy patriarchs trod. 

Thy fertile valleys, bright in summer’s glow. 

Thy cloudless skies, illumining all below. 

Thy mountains, snowy with their thousand flocks, 
And sweetest honey flowing from thy rocks. 

Call for the grateful praise, the adoring thanks 
Of Him who highest in creation ranks. 

Say: has that being life, who views this scene 
With dull, cold eye, and an unaltered mien? 

Turn, proud descendant of a cherished line! 

Mark the rich gifts, and bless the Power divine ; 
Let thine eye rest on fields of waving grain. 

In bright luxuriance, waving o’er the plain. 

On groves of olives, round the green hill’s side. 

And clustering vineyards stretching far and wide, 
On splendid palaces, the city’s boast. 

And cottages, ’midst sheltering foliage lost. 

Shaded from noon-tide’s radiant burning beam. 

The seats of calm and deep repose they seem ; 

Then, on that suffering object cast your eye, 

Who sits, dejected, ’neath yon glowing sky; 

’Midst all this beauty, all this calm repose, 

No soothing joy the lonely blind man knows ; 

Dark, dark, to him, this smiling scene appears, 
Gloomy and sad the livery nature wears ; 

The brightening smile of love can never meet 
His answering glance ; the sun will rise and set. 

But its bright beams can never meet his sight. 
Clouded by one long, dark and dreary night. 

Spring, with its opening green, its fragrant flowers. 
Its rich luxuriance, and its rosy bowers, 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


67 


Blooms not for him ; a blank of shadowy gloom 
O’er past and future marks a saddened doom. 

Is there no ray of hope to cheer his way? 

No gleam of light, foretelling future day? 

Through the proud streets of Jericho there ran 
A rumor of a strange and godlike man, 

Who, sprung from David’s ancient honored line. 

His birth foretold by prophecy and sign. 

By his whole life, holy and just and pure. 

By mighty skill, deadly disease to cure. 

By wonders wrought, unknown to mortal power. 
Had forced even haughty sceptics to adore. 

Would not this wondrous stranger lend his aid 
To the poor, lowly blind man in his need ? 

Mark but his attitude of listening hope ! 

His anxious face turned toward that distant group. 
Whose noisy murmurs strike upon his ear 
Like sounds of soothing joy and welcome cheer ; 
Nearer and nearer yet the tumult pours. 

And like the dashing wave of ocean roars ; 

Did not the blind man’s heart beat high with joy 
When told, “J^sus of Nazareth passeth by”? 

At that all-powerful name, long, dreary years 
And days of misery and nights of tears 
Are like a dismal dream, and a bright dawn 
Seems rising o’er his heart, a rapturous morn ; 

His blood, long chilled by wretchedness and pain. 
Flows with a warmer current through each vein. 
And, by unwonted strength impelled, his voice 
Rose clear and loud above the mingled noise ; 

“Thou, Son of David, mercy and the prayer, 
“Have mercy on me,” echoed through the air. 

Ah ! who could see that sightless being stand. 
Wretched and poor, without one helping hand ; 

And, with cold-hearted selfishness forbid 
That cry for mercy in his suffering need. 

But ’twere as easy to impede the course 
Of the swol’n current, or control its force 
As check the overpowering prayer of faith. 

While still the suppliant has the power of breath. 
Still rose that prayer, still gathering strength it rose, 
“Have mercy on me,” its unvarying close. 

That prayer was not unheard, for He, whose ear 
Is ever open, now. Himself, drew near. 

Now, now, Bartimeus, rise ; He calleth thee ; 


68 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


“Be of good comfort, even thou mayst see;” 

Quick, through the parting crowd, they guide his way 
Till, suppliant, at the Saviour’s feet he lay, 

On whose calm brow a shade of pity spread. 

“What wouldst thou I should do for thee?” he said. 

Riches and honors, what would they avail ? 

Health and long life? alas ! such gifts would fail 
To cast one beam of joy o’er the sad doom 
Of him, condemned to live in endless gloom ; 

“Lord, that I might receive my sight,” he cried. 

“Thy faith hath made thee whole,” Jesus replied. 

Moment of blissful joy ! resplendent light 

Breaks through the dark, thick film of dreary night. 

The sunbeams, sparkling on the clear blue stream, 

The brightening sky, and summer’s vivid green, 

The face of man, all meet his wondering sight. 

And fill his thankful heart with new delight. 

Nor words nor thoughts can picture what he feels, 

As, with full heart, at Jesus’s feet he kneels. 

Almighty Savior ! thou art ever near. 

The fainting soul to comfort and to cheer ; 

Give us the blind man’s joy, the blind man’s faith. 

Trust in our lives, and brightening hope in death. 

“How deserted are now those scenes of such great and mighty 
interest! Jericho, once the stronghold of the ancient Canaanites, 
then a populous and probably magnificent city of the Jews, is now 
a small and mean village, the abode of a few Arabs, and its once 
beautiful plains, through which flows the sacred river of Jordan, 
are almost as dead and inanimate as the waters of the sea in its 
vicinity, where the proud and guilty cities of former days were 
buried. “Sin, in its varied forms,” said Mrs. Wilson, has brought 
this desolation on this chosen land, this land, more blessed and 
favored than all others, not only in its natural advantages, but 
as the land which God had selected to display His omnipotent 
power, and where the Savior of the world passed the short but 
eventful years of his life upon earth. Let our prayers, my chil- 
dren, ascend to the Giver of all good, that He will check, in our 
hearts, ever, the slightest indication to evil, for the conse- 
quences are always misery.” “What a misfortune, to be blind,” 
said Susan. “I can scarcely imagine a more desolate condition 
than that of a person totally blind.” “It is not always so,” re- 
turned Elizabeth, “I have heard it said that blind people were fre- 
quently more contented, more uniformly placid in their disposi- 
tions than many who can see. Is it so, mother?” “I knew a 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


69 


blind man,” said Mrs. Wilson, “the whole tenor of whose life 
would justify us in that belief. He was always quiet and calm, 
of a pleasant countenance, and there was an habitual smile about 
his mouth which would seem to express the sunshine of his heart. 
He would sometimes ramble about, without any guide but his 
cane, feeling his way by the walls and fences, but never at- 
tempting to leave these way-marks without some helping hand, 
frequently claiming the assistance of the children of the village, 
which was never refused. His home was a happy one, consisting 
of his aged father, his brother, and a relative of the family, who 
acted as housekeeper, but was, in reality, considered as daughter 
and sister, and whose kindly heart led her to make the life of 
poor Joseph as happy as it was possible to render it. In his 
solitude, when confined to the house by the inclemency of the 
weather, he would dictate verses for some one to write, and, 
however they might be wanting in smoothness, or correct dic- 
tion, although even the sense might be doubtful, yet there was 
a strain of piety and reliance on God which showed a heart re- 
signed to His will. The peaceful grave has closed over him and 
his death was calm and gentle as his life. And now, with grate- 
ful thanks to God for all his goodness, we will retire to rest.” 

The day was clear and bright, the sky without a cloud, and the 
pure white snow covered with a glittering crust, which did not 
fail beneath the weight when Herbert proposed a short walk, to 
which the younger part of the little community readily assented. 
The air was keen and bracing, but they were well defended from 
it, and the sunbeams were warm and pleasant. Charles was full 
of life and glee, and bounding forward was ready to point to any 
object which he thought worthy of notice. “And do you know, 
Susan,” said he, “Uncle Bill says the worst of the winter weather 
is over, and that there are many signs that we shall have an early 
spring?” “I am in no hurry to have the winter pass away,” re- 
plied Susan, “and am in a good mind to be sorry for the signs of 
spring, but, Herbert, you have not yet given us any clue to the 
history of Uncle Bill, and if you will but remember, you promised 
it, menacing me, at the same time, with some terrible illustration 
of female caprice.” “You shall hear it, my dear Susan, and re- 
member though it may have been the subject of some sport to us, 
the consequences have been almost death to him. His youth was 
prosperous and happy; though not possessed of brilliant talents, 
his powers of mind were good, and he united to them an activity 
and enterprise which soon placed him in a situation of trust and 
profit, in the city of Philadelphia. His relations were all of the 
Society of Friends ; he was patronized and esteemed by the mem- 


70 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


bers of that wealthy and respectable sect in that city, and, by his 
intercourse with refined society, both in England and America, 
for the business in which he was engaged required frequent voy- 
ages across the Atlantic, his manners became polished, which, 
added to his naturally graceful and unaffected demeanor, ren- 
dered him an universal favorite. He became attached and of- 
fered himself to a beautiful girl, a daughter of one of the wealthy 
and influential citizens of the place; with the sanction of her 
friends, his suit was encouraged ; and, as much happiness as this 
world can give dawned upon his prospects. His bright hope of 
bliss was overclouded, for, after a year of assiduous affection 
on his part, and apparent kindness and complacency upon her 
own, a change came over the ‘dream of his hope,’ and, without 
assigning any reason for her inconstancy or fickleness, she no 
longer received his attentions with pleasure, and with cruel in- 
difference to his feelings, required their discontinuance. Thun- 
derstruck at this blow to his dearest hopes, he attempted to avert 
it, but her cold adherence to her determination, and the bitter 
scorn with which she treated his remonstrances, convinced him 
that she had never possessed any true affection for him. Quick 
and sensitive as he was he felt in every pore her unkind treat- 
ment, it undermined his health, destroyed the energy of his mind 
and, when he found, some months afterw^ard, that her marriage 
with another was to be celebrated, the total overthrow of every 
hope completed the prostration of his mind and body. A severe 
illness followed; after a long period, his naturally good constitu- 
tion triumphed, and he regained health, but the vigor and activity 
of his mental faculties were gone forever. He returned to his 
business, but, wholly unfitted for the necessary application to its 
duties, he allowed himself to fall into habits of carelessness and 
inattention, which resulted in a heavy pecuniary loss to the estab- 
lishment with which he was connected. Mortification and the 
fear of disgrace were now added to the feelings of wretchedness 
which oppressed him, and he sought relief in dissipation. This 
was the climax of his fate; from that time he sank lower and 
lower, though, struggling with his ruin, he would, at times, for- 
swear the intoxicating wine cup, and the debasing gaming house, 
yet, the energy of his character, never firm, was lost. His connec- 
tions in business were dissolved, and his friends, to save the rem- 
nant of his fortune, removed him from the scene, alike of his hap- 
piness and misery, and brought him back to his early home. Still, 
all efforts to restore his mind were vain, and, though in time, 
he lost some sense of his unhappiness and blasted hopes, he was 
but the wreck of his former self. He wanders about like a child, 
amusing himself with childish pleasures ; 'attaching himself warm- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


71 


ly to those who are kind and gentle to him, but feeling, with the 
most distressing sensibility, any imaginary slight. This, then, 
Susan, is the melancholy history of ‘Uncle Bill,’ as he is now uni- 
versally called.” “Oh ! I shall never laugh again, when I see 
him ; poor, poor. Uncle Bill.” “But what,” said Mary, “was the 
fate of the thoughtless wicked girl, who was the cause of this 
ruin?” “I know nothing of her after life, but that it was not 
long.” “I think,” said Elizabeth, “that he must have possessed a 
weak intellect, or it would not have yielded so easily to such base 
treatment. I think, Herbert, that indignation would have tri- 
umphed in your heart, over every other emotion.” “I do not 
know, my sister, but I most sincerely hope that I may never be- 
stow an affection of my heart upon so heartless a being.” With 
an unanimous assent to this hope, they now bent their steps home. 


Chapter XI 


Glory, the glory of the world, its triumphs and its pride 
What are its fleeting honors worth? 

Meeting again at evening, and each being engaged in some use- 
ful avocation, Herbert continued their course of reading the tale 
of the early Christians. 

With a hasty step Lucius Flavius pursued his way through the 
streets of the city, thronged with persons of every rank and de- 
gree, on whose countenances might be traced emotions of every 
different kind. In some, the wondering stare of idle curiosity 
mingled with the vacant look of indifference as to what events 
were transpiring; in others, the animated glance of triumphant 
success, with the look and gesture of determined vengeance. Here 
stood a group whose debauched features and downcast expres- 
sion proclaimed that they were companions of the infamous pleas- 
ures of Nero, and that in his downfall they lamented the loss of 
a protecting patron, and there, a crowd, who having been deeply 
injured by the tyrant, were venting their impotent rage by mu- 
tilating his statues, and tearing down the garlands which had 
decorated them. The name of Nero, repeated, was coupled with 
the deepest execrations, but Flavius stopped not to inquire his 
fate. Forcing his way through the dense multitude, which sur- 
rounded the palace of Servius Galba, he required of a guard to be 
admitted to his presence, and while awaiting the return of his 
messenger contemplated, with interest, the scene before him. The 
brilliant illumination of the building cast a broad light upon the 
adjacent objects, and a radiant reflection was thrown back from 
the glittering armor of the long lines of soldiers. The roar of the 
rapidly increasing crowd sounded from afar like the tempestuous 
waves of the ocean, while the strict discipline of the army pre- 
vented any demonstrations of disorder immediately around the 
palace. Amidst the distant uproar, the name of Galba was re- 
iterated with joyful acclamations, mingled with deep and terrible 
denunciations of death for the tyrant. Such, thought the young 
Roman, is the mutability of greatness ; but his reflections were in- 
terrupted by a favorable answer to his request for admittance, and 
he followed an attendant to the presence of the Emperor. Sur- 
rounded by some of the most powerful and influential citizens of 
Rome, with the flush of successful ambition upon his brow, and a 
proud joy flashing from his eyes, stood Servius Galba, arrayed in 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


73 


the imperial purple, and a crown of laurel upon his head. Ad- 
vancing a few steps to meet and receive the congratulatory hom- 
age of the young noble, he said, with an exulting smile, “The 
Fates have been propitious, my lord Flavius, the reign of despot- 
ism and disgrace is at an end ; the Senate have confirmed the elec- 
tion of the Army, and we will commence our reign by an act of 
clernency towards that obnoxious sect, who are turning the world 
upside down by their heresys. It might perhaps be policy,” said 
he, addressing those who were near, “to extend mercy to some of 
these offenders, we find, after long experience in these matters, 
that opposition but increases their obstinacy.” “The young Ro- 
man, Quintius Curtius, is already liberated, noble Galba,” said 
Flavius, “and I now appear to offer my service to return you most 
hearty thanks for your intercession, and to perform a condition, 
upon the fulfilment of which the miserable tyrant insisted ere he 
granted the life of my friend.” “Aye,” said Galba, “he released 
him, then ; he treated my intercession with insolent contumely, and 
by his arrogant menaces hastened the consummation of the events 
to which I alluded in our last interview. Perhaps it is best so; 
but, my friend, caution this young fanatic; he has talents and 
noble abilities, if rightly applied, and if he will not, by his impru- 
dent enthusiasm, thwart my measures, for your sake, I will see to 
his advancement.” This was said in a lower tone, then aloud. 
“But this condition which has been imposed by the imperious hom- 
icide; what is its purport?” “Merely, noble Emperor, that I 
should intercede with you that his life might be spared, which pe- 
tition I now humbly lay before you, representing that his power 
is now impotent, that mercy is the attribute of heaven, and that, 
imitating this attribute, when power is given us so to do, we may 
the more boldly claim it in our hour of need.” “You say well, 
noble Flavius, but this matter is beyond my control. The Senate 
have decreed the punishment, which, severe and harsh as it may 
seem, is so richly his due. He is sentenced to be dragged through 
the streets he has degraded by his infamous excesses, and dis- 
graced by his outrageous cruelties, scourged, and then thrown 
from the Tarpeian Rock. I have, however,” said he, addressing 
Flavius in a confidential tone, “caused my freedman to follow and 
warn him of this decree, and he may yet escape its horrors by a 
voluntary death.” “A most dreadful alternative,” said Flavius, 
“but, may he not yet elude it? He is not destitue of partisans.” 
“It is not possible,” said the Emperor, “the avenues are guarded, 
he has been traced to his villa, and escape is impracticable. This 
has been an eventful night, my countrymen, may the dawn see 
Rome fully emancipated from her disgraceful thraldom. For the 
present, Lucius Flavius, farewell, preparations must be made for 


74 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


the ceremonies of the day ; you shall be instructed as to our future 
proceedings.” 

The first faint appearance of the dawn of day was seen, the 
fleecy clouds were dispersing before the gradual approach of light, 
and the thin mist arose around the tops of the mountains, when, 
at the entrance of a rugged ravine, skirted by the highroad, stood 
a man partially concealed by a clump of trees, apparently watch- 
ing for the appearance of some one. He was pale and haggard, 
and, at every distant noise would cower into his retreat, and listen 
with the most intense eagerness. The sweet sounds of the morn- 
ing had commenced in the soft twitterings of the birds over his 
head, and its breezy breath played upon his parched lips and fev- 
erish brow, but without bestowing serenity to his spirit, or afford- 
ing refreshment to his wearied frame. His impatience seemed to 
increase as the shades of night gave way before the rosy hues 
that betokened the approach of day, and as those tokens rapidly 
increased, as the tops of the mountains, and the distant spires of 
the city caught the first gleam of the rising sun, as the far off 
horn of the shepherd was heard collecting his flock for their rich 
pasture, it almost amounted to agony. It was Anicetus, the freed- 
man, the wretched agent of his wretched master, who, flying 
from fear of the vengeance due to his crimes, here awaited the 
coming of one, who, formerly his fellow servant, he believed 
would not betray him, and, from whom he might learn, with cer- 
tainty, the state of the public mind. What, to him, was the smil- 
ing face of nature or the bright beams of the sun? Midnight 
gloom and lowering tempest would have been more congenial to 
his guilty soul. As he stood motionless, his heavy eyes cast upon 
the ground, and his knit brow shaded in gloom, a squirrel sprang 
from the covert upon a decayed branch directly before him, as the 
sprightly animal stood, with his fearless innocent eyes, glancing 
around, the miserable man gnashed his teeth, and in the impo- 
tence of his rage that any living thing should be happy, aimed a 
blow, which the active animal eluded, the next instant standing 
upon the topmost bough of a lofty tree, chattering in his joyous 
glee. The thought of happiness was hateful to him, as he remem- 
bered the scene he had just left, and the imminent danger of his 
own situation. He had seen the master whom, from his earliest 
childhood he had instructed in evil, to whose base and wicked pas- 
sions he had ever been subservient, but, to whom, if his corrupt 
heart ever felt the sensation of affection, he was more attached 
than to any living thing, breathe out his guilty soul in all the hor- 
rors of dispair ; had seen him dreading the approach of death, and 
evading its final grasp by every futile expedient. He had assisted 
in gathering a funeral pile in that garden, where so much luxury 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


75 


had reigned, and which had so often been the resort of crime and 
pollution ; he had prepared the deadly draught at the command of 
the abject Emperor, and had seen him reject it in horror. He had 
joined in chanting a dirge for the dead ; a dirge for the master, in 
whose veins at that moment the current of life was warm and 
glowing and, with trembling hand had opened those veins, that 
life might pass away with the red stream; then, with hurried 
alarm, arrested its flow by strong bandages, as the ghastly and 
shuddering tyrant, shrinking from the abyss over which his 
wretched soul was hovering, asserted that his time had not yet 
come. To close the frightful scene, he, in the last moment, held 
the glittering weapon, while Nero, the tyrant of his country, the 
bitter and untiring persecutor of the unoffending Christians, 
rushed upon its point, anad closed that life, which had been a 
curse to the world; and now, he found himself alone, exposed to 
a just and terrible retribution, which awaited his own crimes, and 
his connivance at those of another. But now, the tramp of a horse 
became distinctly audible, and a rider, wearing the livery of Ser- 
vius Galba, appeared, in rapid emotion, for the city. As he ap- 
proached the thicket its occupant moved forward, evidently wish- 
ing to be seen. “Ha!” said the horseman, stopping, “you here, 
Anicetus, like a wolf in his lair? By Jupiter, old acquaintance, it 
would have been well to have lived, so that you need not fear to be 
seen.” “No more of that,” said the freedman, in a sullen tone, 
“did you perform the service I requested?” “We laid the body 
upon the pile you had collected, and, kindling the flame, the thick 
smoke arose in the morning air, grim and black as the pit of 
Erebus.” “That is a good deed done, comrade ; I owe you much ; 
his body is then beyond their reach, ’twas his last request ; I can 
trust you, old friend, what is my safest course?” “Leave Rome 
behind you ; track your way through the most unfrequented paths 
to some distant land, and, in quitting your country, leave all your 
sins and ill-gotten treasures, that you may travel light. You will 
not be safe here an hour, the scent is up, and the hunters will not 
flag.” “Say you so, then farewell to Rome; thanks to the gods, 
there are other skies, the air of this place seems damp and un- 
wholesome.” “The atmosphere is clearing, friend, it will work 
itself pure shortly. Farewell. Fear not that I shall betray you. 
May the gods prom.pt you to lead a better life, and provide you a 
better master.” He pursued his way to the city, and the dark and 
guilty man, plunging into the ravine, was lost to sight. 

“The environs of Rome,” said Herbert, “once so delightful, 
are now but a dreary waste, with no human habitation or fertile 
fields; the melancholy ruins of former greatness, scattered here 


76 A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 

and there, but add to the desolation and the poisonous exhala- 
tions from stagnant marshes have driven almost all life from its 
desert soil/’ “Why should this air be so infectious?” said Mary ; 
“it surely was not so in former times, for, had it been, the Roman 
territories would not have been so populous.” “The lands around 
the city in the bright days of Rome,” said Herbert, “were highly 
cultivated; they were drained of their superabundant moisture, 
trees were planted and rich vineyards cherished; the whole ex- 
tent of territory around the great emporium was like a garden, 
supplying the wants of the immense population; the inhabitants 
lived under their own vines and fig trees, and had every in- 
ducement to industry, and every encouragement to render their 
soil as fertile as possible, and peace and prosperity was the con- 
sequence. But, when powerful, barbarous nations, allured by 
the riches and splendor of Rome, and probably foreseeing that 
her inhabitants, enervated by luxury and long-continued pros- 
perity, would become an easy prey to their rapacity, poured upon 
the rich and beautiful plains of Italy, devastation and ruin marked 
their course. The fruitful trees were cut down, the vineyards 
defaced, the drains and aqueducts destroyed, the inhabitants 
slain, or, saving themselves by flight, and their pleasant dwellings 
leveled with the ground. Disheartened and discouraged, the 
Roman people no longer possessed the energy to combat with 
their fate. They forsook their ruined plains and the noxious vapors 
arising from the deserted fields, producing disease and pestilence, 
gave up all thought of repairing the ravages of war. The mis- 
chief has been gradually increasing and threatens, at some fu- 
ture day, to make the “Eternal City,” as it has been named, like 
Babylon of old, the residence of only noisome reptiles.” “It is 
sad,” said his mother, “to reflect upon the fate of these mighty 
nations, and to know that their downfall was the consequence 
of their crimes. May luxury, with its long train of evils, be far 
from our own native land!” “Shall I interpret your looks, 
Susan?” remarked Herbert, smiling; “you are thinking that, 
though luxury may be a great evil, you would rather prefer a 
little of it ; that you should not exactly like the frugal meals of 
the old Romans, ‘a radish and an egg, under an oak.’ ” “You are 
partly right, Herbert,” said she, “notwithstanding their simplic- 
ity, patriotism and bravery, and all that sort of things, there is 
something revolting in some of their manners and customs ; wit- 
ness the little ceremony used in procuring their wives in those 
early days.” “That was when Rome was first founded, Susan,” 
said Charles. “Those were not what Herbert calls the bright 
days of Rome.” “True, true, my little critic,” said Herbert; 
“simplicity, in the days referred to by Susan, was barbarism, and 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


77 


patriotism and bravery then were often questionable virtues.” 
‘‘Were there any such really brave and good men, at those times, 
as Gen. George Washington?” said Charles. “Their greatest 
and best men,” said Mrs. Wilson, had not that light to guide 
them which he possessed. The paths, to him like noonday, were 
to them enveloped in shadowy gloom ; but in no age has there ever 
lived a man who more truly deserved to be ‘first in the hearts 
of his countrymen’ than Washington, the pride and boast of 
America. His firm and steady prudence, his sound discretion 
and unwavering integrity, his noble courage, and, above all, his 
unswerving trust in Providence, render him the model of all 
greatness. Other conquerors sought their own aggrandizement ; 
he, only that of his country; they trampled on all laws, human 
and divine, to attain their purposes ; his great aim and object was 
the happiness of the world as well as that of his beloved country.” 
“The death of Washington,” said Herbert, “proved the estimation 
in which he was held by the nation. They knew not, until then, 
how much they had relied upon his penetrating judgment and 
firm perseverance, his incorruptible integrity and unshaken 
patriotism; that star was removed whose steady ray had uni- 
formly pointed to the path of true glory and a mist seemed for 
a time to envelope the world. The most enthusiastic honors 
were paid to his memory ; his loss was deplored from one ex- 
tremity of the country to the other; even prattling babes were 
clothed in the symbols of mourning and, had this great and good 
man lived in the days of heathen Rome, he would have been 
deified and honored as a god. Orators, in eloquent language, 
poured forth his praises and poets chose their noblest strains 
for his honor ; malice and envy found no place for their inuendoes 
and the smoothing hand of time was not needed to fix his glorious 
character.” 


Chapter XII 


How oft the fickle multitude have climbed 
Those battlements, to hail some mighty lord, 

Whom, ere the changing moon had run her course, 

They spurned, as a base reptile. 

The next leisure evening was devoted to the conclusion of the 
Roman Tale. 

The day of freedom from oppression dawned upon Rome. 
The short period of repose had renewed the excitement and 
activity of the populace, who, aroused by tidings of the fate of 
Nero, and enraged that he had escaped their vengeance, wreaked 
it upon every object marked by the favor of the tyrant Em- 
peror. Nothing but the strictest orders, enforced by a powerful 
guard of soldiers, preserved the splendid palace, “The Golden 
House,” the rich abode of the luxurious Nero, from destruction, 
but his statues, and those which he had caused to be erected in 
honor of his chosen favorites, were demolished with the most 
bitter imprecations. Again the shouts of triumph and rejoicing 
would peal through the air and with the wildest enthusiasm the 
people assumed the peculiar cap worn by the slaves upon their 
restoration to freedom, as a token that they, too, were freed 
from bondage. Garlands of laurel adorned the streets, were 
twined around the colonnades of the buildings, and hung in fes- 
toons from the projecting balconies, and, as the triumphal chariot 
of the new Emperor, surrounded by the imposing array of mili- 
tary pomp, passed slowly through the crowded ways, toward the 
Capitol, to attend the ceremonies of the day, showers of roses 
descended upon him and music hailed his progress. Paeans arose 
from the temples and the odor of incense made the air fragrant. 
The Amphitheatre, destined that day to have been the scene of 
torture and death, was left in silence and solitude, a general jubi- 
lee was proclaimed, prisoners were released, and all executions 
were suspended. 

Beneath a low-browed arch sat the Thessalian Sybil ; her form 
was more attenuated, the excitement and fatigue of the night 
had worn upon her aged frame, but her still keen eyes watched 
the motions of the crowd and her lips were moving with sup- 
pressed thought. A citizen, whose lameness precluded his attend- 
ance Upon the procession, was gazing upon her as he leaned upon 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


79 

his crutches. “Mother,” said he, “the Destinies have suffered 
your thread of life to stretch far.” She raised her eyes to his 
face. “Didst thou mark the gay pageant, citizen of Rome?” 

Aye,^^ did I ; by my troth,” was the answer, “it was a goodly 
sight.” “It has passed before me as a shadow,” she said, “as 
the mist of the morning, indistinct and fading. It is a few davs 
since these eyes beheld the murdered body of your great Caesar 
born through these streets, in mournful array ; since these ears 
heard the din of civil war through these lands, when brother 
fought against brother, and father against son ; heard the exultant 
shouts proclaiming the mighty Augustus Emperor of Rome, and 
saw the massy gates of Janus closed, as the signal of peace upon 
earth. I have heard rejoicing and triumph echo through this city 
at the commencement of a reign, and still louder rejoicing at its 
close. I have seen a stately temple arise, dedicated to thy gods, 
the incense streaming from its altars, mingling with that of one 
consecrated to Caligula ; but a few years rolled on and he met 
his death from the parasites who aided in the blasphemy. The 
wind which now breathes softly around us, and which^ a few 
short hours having passed, may sweep the plains in its fury, is 
not more variable than this fickle populace. Again and again ex- 
ulting shouts and bitter curses follow each other in quick suc- 
cession and will do so till the glory of this proud city is shrouded 
in the dust.” She had uttered these words in a low, but deep 
and earnest tone ; her head rested upon her hands and her elbows 
upon her knees ; the soliloquy she had commenced to the person 
who had stood near her seemed to have been, in part, the utter- 
ance of the recollections of her life, without reference to any 
listener. Another citizen passing, “Thou are weatherbound, 
Rutilius,” addressing the lame man, “the gods console thee ; thou 
hast lost a glorious spectacle.” “May the Furies seize the un- 
wieldy Goth who crippled my limbs !” was the answer. “Describe 
the show. Curio.” “Thou shouldst have seen the noble Emperor 
Galba ; with what a gracious dignity he accepted the homage of 
the Senate, and the oaths of the soldiery, and heard his oration to 
the people ; how he thanked them for their suffrages ; and how 
the priests in their solemn array offering sacrifices, as the smoke 
of the incense arose in clouds before them, sang paeans to the 
deities, and the pealing notes reverberated around the lofty 
ceiling. In good truth, friend, thy limbs have proved recreant 
in this matter.” “Rome will thrive under the reign of this 
Galba,” said Rutilius. “There will be something going on beside 
these dismal executions, of which we may well be weary.” “More, 
by token,” said the other, when every day renewed them. By the 
powers above ! it joys my heart that the noble Curtius has escaped 


8o 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


the lions. Didst note his princely aspect when he confronted the 
tyrant in the Forum? It were worse than tyranny to immolate 
such a Roman.” 

An aged man stood listening to the discourse. “The fangs of 
the ferocious beasts,” he said, “were mercy to the inhuman cruelty 
of Nero. The gods have at length awarded his doom, but the 
marks of his malice and fury are deeply printed upon our city.” 

“Most deeply in thy heart, old Crispus, thou hast good cause 
to curse the memory of Nero.” 

“Have I not! Curio,” said the old man, his gleaming eyes and 
trembling limbs bespeaking his emotion, “where is my brave, my 
noble boy, the support of my years, the idol of my love? Was 
not his life sacrificed, daring to brave the vengeance of that 
human monster, to wrest the wife of his love from even a more 
dreadful fate than his own, from a more bloody beast than the 
one that tore his mangled limbs ?” Grief soon choked every other 
emotion, and large tears rolled down his withered cheeks. 

“Nay, good Crispus, nay; time has softened thy sorrow; do 
not renew it.” “Rome will be at peace, now,” said Rutilius, “so, 
mother,” continued he, addressing the aged woman, who had 
appeared sunk in stupor, “thou mayst add another to thy list of 
changes.” Her vacant gaze would have betokened inattention to 
his address, but, as he spoke, she arose, though with difficulty, 
and her voice, though clear and distinct, was faint. “Ye are the 
creatures of change,” said she ; “the idol of one hour, ye contemn 
the next. There is One,” and her tone changed to a deep solem- 
nity, “who is said to be the same yesterday, today, and forever ! 
Believest thou in the God of the Christians ?” 

“Not I, mother, and methinks if thou dost, it is well for thine 
aged limbs that Nero is not Emperor of Rome.” 

“The years of my life are closing,” she said ; “the thick dark- 
ness which brooded over them is dispersing, the strength of this 
weary body is failing, but light dawns upon the benighted soul. 
Listen,” said she, her voice becoming more firm, “ere the num- 
ber of the days of my life have again passed, thine haughty Em- 
perors will acknowledge this God ; these gilded temples will echo 
with His worship, and the altars of thy false gods be overthrown 
in the dust from whence they sprang.” 

As they listened to her predictions with fixed attention she sank 
again upon the step from which she had arisen. In a low and 
soft cadence she continued : “The sweet music of my childhood’s 
home sounds in mine ears, the fragrance of its fields steals over 
my senses, and my pulse vibrates to the joyous measure of the 
dancing virgins.” Her face became more deathly pale, her utter- 
ance more broken. “Go,” said she, “to the noble Roman, Quintius 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


8l 


Curtius, say to him that Sagana, the Thessaiian, with her dying 
breath implores a resing place beneath the cypress which shades 
the grave of her mother ; go ; and thou, too, in thy last need, shalt 
find a friend.” 

Her head drooped upon a projection of rock, her eyes closed, 
but as her spirit departed the rigid lines of her face relaxed and 
a calm, serene expression stole over it, unknown to her life. 

“ ’Tis the old witch of the mountain,” said Curio, “as very a 
Hecate as ever took the form of an old woman.” 

“ril not do her bidding,” said Rutilius. 

“That will I,” said Crispins ; “if these aged limbs will support 
me, if the God of the Christians be her God, I will go on her 
errand for the sake of my departed Cleia, the darling of my mur- 
dered boy ; she owned no other deity.” So saying, the good old 
man adjusted the mantle over her marble features and, with slow 
steps, pursued his way to the Appian palace. 

“These Christians will be growing bold, now,” said Rutilius. 

“Aye, that will they,” said Curio ; “but it behooves them to be 
cautious, for Galba, albeit not a Nero, is no friend to their rigid 
doctrine.” The two citizens departed and the remains of the 
being whose protracted years had now reached their end, whose 
life of misery had closed in peace, were left alone. From the 
time when wandering in solitary wretchedness, she had been led 
by a Hand which she knew not near the secluded abode of the 
pious Helena, had encountered the kind and lovely recluse, lis- 
tened to her soothing consolations, and had suffered her thoughts 
to rise from the polluted depths of sin and despair, to the pure 
and holy Heaven of hope, her perturbed spirit had been gradually 
settling into peaceful rest. From this dark world her desires 
ascended to one of light and joy and, though born and reared 
amidst the gloom of Paganism, the bright beams of Christianity 
had pierced the shadowy cloud. Alone, in a cold and friendless 
world, she had lived, beset with trials and temptations ; she had 
now gone to an everlasting Friend, to One whose all-seeing eye 
had watched her steps; whose Almighty arm had sustained her, 
and who, in her last hours, had poured consolation into her 
bruised and sorrowing heart. 

The wild tumult of the mighty multitude reached not the peace- 
ful home of the revered Christian. As the sun arose in his morn- 
ing splendor, the majestic old trees, which surrounded the dwell- 
ing, cast their gently waving shadows over the portico, where, in 
sweet communion, sat the young Curtius and his sister. The 
breezy fragrance of the early day was wafted as mild incense to 
their senses, the clear soft music of the birds filled the air as an 
offering to the Giver of all good, while afar, in the distant val- 


82 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


leys, borne upon the murmuring gale, was heard the mingled 
sounds of rural life ; the shepherd’s call, the answering flock, and 
lowing cattle, contrasted happily with the harsher sounds from the 
extended streets of the city. At intervals, from within the ancient, 
but still stately dwelling, the solemn hymn, in honor of the noble 
dead, would swell in full chorus, and the rich melody would al- 
most lead the soul of the listener to the heaven to which it directed 
its thoughts. During its pauses, some old minstrel, who had fol- 
lowed the fortunes of the family, through weal and through woe, 
in shrill, but animated recitative, would rehearse its greatness, its 
long line of renowned ancestors, their brave exploits and princely 
endowments, and, as he ended by striking some high and lofty 
notes upon his harp, the pealing sounds would arouse in the breasts 
of the faithful retainers of the illustrious departed a portion of the 
enthusiastic animation with which they had followed their lords to 
the field of battle. The pride of birth, though subdued and regu- 
lated by the power of religion, glowed in the hearts of the young 
listeners, in whose persons were united the almost regal houses 
from whom they counted their descent. 

“This spot, my sister,” said Curtius, “is all that is left us of the 
worldly wealth of our ancestors, but the legacy they have be- 
queathed of incorruptible virtue, of integrity not to be bribed by 
the allurements of pleasure, or the rewards of ambition, their pa- 
triotism, and undaunted bravery, joined to the still richer one of 
our pious father, makes us heirs of an inheritance not to be 
weighed with the riches of this world. And mark, sweet sister,” 
he continued, “the ruling hand of God. Yesternight, the setting 
sun saw the tyrant Emperor surrounded with the riches of a trib- 
utary world ; from the banks of the Tiber to the farthest shores of 
Britain, he ruled with despotic sway ; yet his power and splendor 
have vanished as a tale that is told; while the prisoner, whose 
anticipations of the light of this day, but for mighty support, must 
have been of agony and terror, is restored to the blessings of life 
and liberty.” 

“Oh, my brother,” said Cleone, “we have awakened from a 
dream of misery, and a life of grateful praise shall be devoted to 
our God.” 

“Mark yet again, my Cleone,” said the young Roman, “a few 
short years since, amidst the courtly halls of Nero, moved a fe- 
male, whose transcendant beauty, and surpassing loveliness gave 
her an irresistible influence over the heart of the capricious Em- 
peror, and her sway was undisputed, for it was gentle and un- 
assuming, and, even malice found no room for censure. Ere the 
love of change, caprice, or estranged affection had doomed her to 
disgrace, or perhaps, a worse fate, guided by a mysterious Prov- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


83 

idence, her heart was subdued by the power of truth. She be- 
came a Christian, and disdained to be longer a slave to the imper- 
ious will of the tyrant. The marble floors no longer echoed her 
light footstep, the places that had known her, knew her no more, 
and the bright, the admired and queenly Valeria was lost to the 
infamous courts of Nero. But, in the lowly homes of the poor, 
by the couch of the sick and dying, the abode of the sorrowful 
and despairing, a sweet and ministering spirit, teaches content 
to the humble, soothes the distress, and points with a blissful hope 
to a happy home in heaven.” 

As he ceased speaking their mother approached, followed by 
an attendant, wearing the badge of the Flavian family. 

“A messenger from your friend, my son.” ‘‘Health and long 
life, from my lord Flavius,” said he. “He commends him to the 
noble Curtius, and his honored family, the duties of his post, 
near the Emperor, prevents his personal presence at this time, 
but he craves permission to join them in celebrating the obse- 
quies of their noble kinsman.” 

“Return our most hearty thanks,” said Curtius, “we will await 
his presence.” “On my way hither,” said the messenger, “I en- 
countered the aged Crispus, who sought thy presence, noble Cur- 
tius, hearing the last request of Sagana, the Thessalian Sybil, who 
is even now dead, that she might lay by the side of her parent, in 
her last resting place. The weary old man had gained the foot of 
the hills, and rested awhile, ere he commenced the ascent. There 
I overtook him, and offered to relieve him of his task. He has 
now returned to watch the body, which lies under the Arch, near 
the Preatorium, until thy further orders.” 

“She has then gone to her rest,” said the matron. “The thread 
upon which hung her protracted life has been severed by the ex- 
citing scenes of the past night. May the peace which has so 
lately dawned upon her soul rest and abide there! Let her last 
wish, my Curtius, be fulfilled, and, glory to the God of mercy, 
who has not suffered her sun to set in the dark cloud of Pagan 
superstition.” 

Soft music from within stole upon the air, and sweet voices 
sang: 

Warrior! rest; thy toil is o’er, 

The trumpet’s sound calls thee no more. 

The Eagle Standard floats on high. 

But closed is its defender’s eye. 

Strewn flowers above the honored dead. 

Shed fragrance o’er his hallowed bed; 

Let the unfading Amaranth twine 
With Cypress and the Eglantine. 


84 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Glory to Him, whose home of love 

Waits to receive his soul above! 

Glory to Him, whose mighty power 

Supports the Christian’s dying hour I 

Christian ! now thy warfare ends ; 

Thy God his gracious love extends ; 

Through Him the victory is won; 

The triumph gained, the conflict done. 

The reign of the depraved and barbarous persecutor of the 
Christians had closed with the succession of Servius Galba, a 
new era had dawned upon their fortunes; and, although the 
“blood of the Martyrs” had proved “as seed to the Church,” yet 
the season of peace and quiet, which now ensued served to foster 
and ripen the Christian graces, which, in those days of cruelty and 
inhuman bigotry acquired a stern and almost gloomy character. 
The mild and beautiful religion of our Saviour, when allowed its 
free course, in the sweet scenes of domestic life, shone with a 
more benignant lustre, and its votaries, no longer shuddering with 
the terror incident to human nature, at the consequences of avow- 
ing their faith, fearlessly taught and practised its heaven-born 
precepts. 

The virtues of the noble family whose fortunes we have been 
following, were expanded beneath the rays of the sun of pros- 
perity, and, for ages, some of the most undaunted defenders of 
the Christian faith were ranked among its descendants. Con- 
nected with illustrious and powerful houses, they were no longer 
exposed to persecution themselves, and, were enabled, by their 
influence, not only to promote the rapidly progressing cause of 
Christianity, but to save many of its disciples from suffering in 
the days of trial, which ensued in some of the subsequent reigns. 

We have now closed our tale of the early Christians,” said 
Herbert, “and, tho’ it is a simple story, and pretends to no ro- 
mance or mystery, yet it is not destitute of a moral.” “Very far 
from it,” said Mrs. Wilson, “who can read the short, but well 
authenticated account of the death of Nero, and contrast it with 
that of the aged Christian, or even with the last moments of the 
erring but misguided Sybil, without saying, “Let my death be 
that of the righteous.’ ” 

“Well, my little brother,” said Herbert, addressing Charles, 
“you have very kindly abstained from criticisms during'the course 
of our reading. Now tell us if you have discovered any dis- 
crepancies, through the narrative, as you are now, no doubt, by 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


85 

your acquaintance with Roman history, able to discover.’’ ‘‘You 
are laughing at me, Herbert, but I will tell you one error. It 
was not Nero, I believe, who compelled the Senate to sanction 
the election of his horse to the consulship, but Heliogabas.” “I 
think you are right,” said Herbert. “He was, however, a kindred 
spirit ; and now, we will compare notes upon our improvement this 
winter ; beginning with you, Charles, of whose progress I can, in 
some measure report, being your instructor.” “And, besides my 
regular lessons,” said Charles, “I have read more than half 
through Rollins Ancient History aloud to Susan.” “And,” said 
Susan, “besides listening to Charles, while I sewed, I have re- 
viewed the History of England, and read Cowper’s Task, not to 
mention reading the newspaper, etc., etc., and all this in addition 
to my Latin lesson with Herbert.” “Please do explain those et 
ceteras, my pretty cousin.” “Not I,” she replied, “I cannot bur- 
den my memory with any more of my multifarious occupations.” 
“You have forgotten that we have read the Pilgrim’s Progress 
again.” “Ah! true,” said Susan, “and the life of the good old 
dreamer; now, for as good an account of your winter studies, 
my dear sister and cousin ; but I am inclined to believe you will be 
deficient unless you dignify with the name of study the art of 
making bread, puddings, and pies, etc.” “One of the most useful 
studies, Susan,” said Herbert, “only not leave the rest undone.” 
“Do not imagine we have become mere household automatons,” 
said Elizabeth. “In addition to a tolerable stock of the knowl- 
edge to which Susan refers, we have read Gibbon’s Decline and 
Eall of the Roman Empire and Hunter’s Sacred Biography, be- 
sides reaping some benefit from Charles’ reading.” “And I have 
initiated Elizabeth into my little stock of French,” said Mary, “but, 
Herbert, we shall not allow you to be sole catechist; we shall re- 
quire an account of the manner in which you have spent your 
solitary hours, which, I am sure, have not been few.” “Must I 
make full confession,” said he. “Full and free, without prevar- 
ication or equivocation.” “Seriously, then, dear Mary, it 
requires no little labor to retain my position in my 
class, the other members of which are now pacing the 
halls of old Harvard, in addition to those pleasant employments 
enjoyed in common with the rest of you.” “Setting apart a little 
time,” said Susan, laughing merrily, “devoted to the Muses. Ah I 
Herbert, I have made the discovery, partly by my own sagacity, 
and partly by the tell-tale expression of Aunt Wilson’s counte- 
nance, that you are the author of much of the poetry which has 
entertained us this winter.” “ ’Twas but the amusement of a 
passing hour, dear Susan, and if it has been a source of interest 
to you, an important end is attained.” “And you must continue 


86 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


that interest, my son,” said Mrs. Wilson, ‘‘if it will not interfere 
with other duties. I think,” added she, addressing Mary and 
Susan, that your parents will approve your winter employment, 
and that in after time you will review them without regret.” 
“That I am sure we shall,” said Mary. 


Chapter XIII 


They had borne all unmoved ; disease and death, 

The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil ; 

That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land. 

The home of liberty. Shall those sons now 
Barter the rich inheritance? 

Some days had passed after the conversation which closed the 
last chapter. A cold stormy evening found our little family with- 
out visitors and prepared, as they drew around the table, which 
displayed a goodly collection of needlework, etc., to listen to Her- 
bert as he read from a manuscript provided by Mrs. Wilson for 
the entertainment of the evening. 

Years have passed away and the events of the War of the 
American Revolution are mingling with the obscurity of the past, 
the glorious achievement of our liberty has opened a new era in 
our history, ‘‘old things are done away,” but the imagination de- 
lights to linger around the scenes of what seems now “olden 
times” ; scenes of peril and distress, but, over whose remembrance 
a deep interest, a magical charm, is thrown by the knowledge that 
our kindred and friends bore important parts in the drama, and 
that the closing act was the freedom of our country. Many were 
the events of deep and thrilling interest which are now buried in 
oblivion, or known only to those immediately concerned. The 
reminiscences which are the subject of these remarks may be 
wanting in that intense interest, but as being a delineation of 
the times, of their manners and feelings, and true, in all their 
main incidents, they may claim some share of attention. It was 
towards the latter part of May, 1775, but a short time before the 
memorable battle of Bunker Hill, that a horseman, wearied and 
worn with travel, exposed to the rays of the burning sun, on a 
day of uncommon heat for the season, and whose horse seemed 
sinking with fatigue, turned into a shady lane, leading from the 
more public road to a small cluster of buildings, in the compara- 
tively thinly settled town of Malden, about four miles from Bos- 
ton. As he entered the pleasant shade, formed by the apple trees 
which skirted the road, he permitted the tired animal to slacken its 
pace, first casting an anxious and inquiring glance about him. 
Apparently seeing no immediate cause for fear, he continued to 
ride slowly; removed his hat, and wiping his warm and dusty 


88 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


brow, appeared to breath more freely. His dress was that of a 
gentleman, and his countenance, though pale and disturbed, was 
intelligent and open. After pursuing this pace for about half a 
mile, the cool and pleasant sound of running water directed his 
attention to a watering place, at the side of the road, and the re- 
newed spirit of the steed, and his evident wish to taste the luxury, 
induced his master to dismount, and lead him to the fountain. At 
this moment a small dog springing up, and barking vehemently, 
he perceived a woman seated upon a bank near. He started, for 
his looks and manner had indicated that he sought concealment, 
and, aiming a blow at the waspish little animal, was preparing to 
remount his horse. ‘‘Come back. Faith,” said the woman, sharp- 
ly, then, as the dog slunk back to her feet, she continued, in an 
apologetic tone : ‘‘He can’t do much harm, sir ; he has seen his 
best days ; only he might frighten the beast, though, to be sure, he 
looks too tired to mind a trifle.” “Do you live in this neigh- 
borhood?” said the traveler, permitting his horse to graze the 
green herbage around the watering place. “Just over the edge 
of yonder hill,” said she, “but it’s something of a walk, and I’ve 
nobody now to do my errands since John has gone.” “Do you 
know Capt. B.’s family? Is he at home?” “Know the family! 
That’s what I do; at home? No; bless your heart, no; at home! 
indeed, 3'ou’ll find no able-bodied men at home now, more espe- 
cially the Captain. Where is he? Did you say? That’s what I 
don’t know. Sent on some service or other ; left every thing, sir, 
family, land, cattle, and all at loose ends, for the sake of his 
country ; for the matter of that, old Sam Lynde, who has lost one 
leg, and is nearly seventy, is the only man left behind; and he 
would be glad to go ; I can tell you. The country is all in arms, 
sir, it’s as much as ever the reg’lars over in Boston can get any 
food to eat, or wood to burn.” Without waiting to hear more the 
questioner turned his horse. “Well,” said she, in a low soliloquy, 
as he rode away, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was a Tory, for his 
face didn’t brighten a bit when I told him how alive and stirring 
our people were; I’ll warrant Faithful mistrusted him, or he 
wouldn’t have been so spiteful.” So saying she rose, and pass- 
ing through a stile, into a path which led through a meadow, bent 
her course in the direction she had indicated as her home. 

Meanwhile, the rider had pursued his way; as he passed he 
regarded the objects around him with much interest and, when 
he arrived at a spring of water at the side of the road, about a 
mile from the last stopping place, he rested his horse upon the 
little stone bridge which crossed the stream proceeding from the 
spring. Gazing earnestly upon the pleasant spot, overshadowed 
by tall trees, a train of sad, not unpleasant, reflections passed 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


89 

through his mind. Who, that after long years of absence, has 
revisited the spot where his infancy and childhood had passed in 
the bosom of affection, but can sympathize with such reflections? 
The well remembered perfume of the mint and sweet herbs which 
grew around the never-failing spring in rich profusion revived 
in his memory the playful hours of youth ; he could, in imagina- 
tion, see the never-to-be-forgotten form of his m.other, as she 
came down the avenue which led to the house, to watch the sports 
of her children, could retrace the pleasant smile and beaming 
glance of her eye as she witnessed their little feats of skill and 
strength, and hear her kindly voice warn them of danger ; and 
a mild but grave face of his father, as he would sometimes join 
them, and, leaning over the balustrade of the little bridge, would 
address to them some remark of affectionate interest, was pres- 
ent to his mind, as if but a day had intervened. Where were 
now those kind guardians, where the happy group which had 
then mingled in sweet communion? The grave had closed over 
the first, and time, absence and civil dissention had separated the 
last. As these thoughts saddened his heart, tears filled his eyes, 
but the heavy roll of cannon from some ship in the harbor aroused 
him from his reverie and, turning from the spot which had 
awakened these memories, he passed up the avenue we have re- 
ferred to, to the mansion of his birth, and now the residence of 
the family of his brother. All was quiet around, except, at inter- 
vals, the merry laugh or gleeful shout of childish mirth echoed 
from the green lawn, where he saw three little beings pursuing 
their happy sport. “The children of m.y brother,” he thought, 
but they were too far for him to distinguish them particularly. 
Alighting and approaching the door, he saw an elderly female 
seated and engaged in knitting. As he drew near she looked up, 
and, after scanning his countenance attentively a few moments, 
she rose hastily, dropped her work, and ejaculated: “Mercy upon 
me, Mr. Nathaniel! Is it you?” “It is indeed myself, Prudy; 
how has it happened that, after so many years, you have not for- 
gotten me ?” “There is not one of your family I shall forget while 
I have reason,” said she, “but the news reached us that you had 
sailed for England and I never thought to see you again.” “I 
am now on my way to Boston, to embark in the first vessel that 
leaves the harbor for the home of my ancestors, but I am escaping 
from enemies, my good Prudy, enemies to me and, as I believe, 
to their lawful king. Will you afford refreshment to one whom 
you no doubt believe to be a traitor to his country?” “You 
should not talk so, Mr. Nathaniel ; you are in your brother’s 
house, though, may be, if he were here, he would look upon you 
with a frowning brow; yet his wife will not, I am sure, and I 


90 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


will but let her know you are here before I take care of you and 
your horse.” She then led the way into the house and, showing 
him into an apartment, she left him alone. How well remembered 
was the prospect from those windows ! The pleasant green that 
sloped from the house, the old pear trees at the foot of the de- 
clivity, while, in the distance, but directly opposite, lay the town 
of Boston, with its tall spires, and the harbor, with its masts. 
There was the clump of walnut trees where he had gathered nuts 
and, near by, the old apple tree which had obtained the name of 
“mother’s tree,” because it bore an apple which was her favorite 
fruit, and even as he gazed, the old bell of Brattle Street Church, 
with its deep tone, struck its well remembered chime. There is 
something in the breath of spring that especially revives the 
memory of the past and it was with many a sweet and sad recol- 
lection that the wanderer lingered near the window and turned 
reluctantly at the opening of the door. The wife of his brother 
greeted him with affectionate kindness and her sympathy and 
soothing words cheered his heart. In answer to her wish that he 
could stay with them, could enter into the feelings of his coun- 
trymen and aid them in their exertions for freedom from unjust 
exactions, he said : “It is in vain, dear Hester, to think of it ; 
though I may feel as you do, that our king has been misled by 
evil counsellors ; that he has imposed harsh restrictions upon these 
colonies, and, by these means, alienated the affections of the peo- 
ple, still, in my opinion, my allegiance is due to him and to him 
it must be paid. Other influences have contributed to strengthen 
my early attachment to the English government ; since I last saw 
you I have been betrothed to the daughter of a British officer, 
most amiable and beloved, and have had my hopes and anticipa- 
tions blasted by her death. Her country must still be 
mine ; but I have been almost a martyr to my loyalty, 
for I have been seized as a Tory, accused, though most 
unjustly, of transmitting intelligence to the royal army, im- 
mured in close confinement, and, though not harshly treated, yet 
debarred from communication with my friends. The hours spent 
in such solitude were dreary enough, uncheered by sympathy or 
affection, though not abandoned by hope, for I still trusted in the 
exertions of those who, I was confident, would use their utmost 
endeavors for my release. I was not mistaken in my expecta- 
tions, for two days ago, as I paced my gloomy apartment in soli- 
tary musing, the door was unlocked and a person entered who 
had a few times officiated as my jailor. He performed some 
trifling offices and, as he retired, left the door ajar, casting, as 
I thought, a significant glance at me. I followed at some dis- 
tance, but, losing sight of him at the foot of the stairs, I passed 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


91 


out at the door ; and, seeing a horse, prepared for a journey, 
fastened to the railing, I mounted without any hesitation, con- 
cluding, I have no doubt rightly, that the means of escape were 
thus provided by friends. I have scarcely allowed myself rest 
or refreshment, being fearful of pursuit, and, by changing horses, 
I have at last arrived so near the place of my destination, which 
is Boston, from whence, as soon as possible, I shall embark for 
England ; for I can not join against my countrymen in this con- 
test. You will sympathize with me in this resolution, my dear 
sister ‘‘Yes,’’ said she, “but you are exhausted and must 
stay here until you are refreshed.” “No,” he said, “if I can elude 
the Argus vigilance of your excited populace I shall be in Boston 
tonight and, besides, I must not subject your good husband to 
the mortification of knowing that his Tory brother has obtained 
an asylum under his roof. I know too well his uncompromising 
zeal in behalf of the colonies and his determined animosity to 
those whom he considers their enemies.” Prudy now entered and 
placed upon the table the refreshments she had prepared, with 
many excuses for what she termed the homely fare; but the fine 
fish, the fresh, though coarse, bread, and sweet butter needed no 
apology and were duly appreciated by the way-worn traveler. 
To renew what she called his exhausted spirits she had prepared 
what was, at that time, a luxury, a cup of tea, and, as he inhaled 
the perfume so grateful to the wearied frame, he smiled at the 
good woman and said : “How is this, Prudy, are you not too much 
of a patriot to use this prohibited beverage, and in the house, too, 
of one of the most determined rebels against his king?” The 
color mounted in the cheeks of the faithful domestic as she pre- 
pared to make an energetic defence, but her mistress replied, 
with a ready smile : “Nay, brother, you must not quarrel with your 
physician, or the medicine, though it be contraband. Your 
brother, being far away, is not responsible for the misdemeanors 
of the two lonely inhabitants of his deserted home. And, truly, 
this cheering herb is now only used as a medicine. We join heart 
and hand, however, with our brave countrymen in deprecating 
the tyrannical laws which have deprived us of many comforts, 
besides, this more especially,” she said, and the tears glittered in 
her eyes, “of the society of those nearest and dearest to our 
hearts.” “God grant, dear Hester, that this most unnatural war 
may soon cease, for, if continued, misery and extermination will 
be the fate of these flourishing colonies.” “We hope for better 
things, brother, the united exertions of so many true and noble 
hearts as are scattered through the country, with the help of God, 
in a just cause, will effect miracles.” Three beautiful little girls 
now appeared at the door and, being told by their mother to ap- 


92 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


proach, received the caresses of their uncle. The eldest was a 
bright and beautiful child of nine years, full of life and anima- 
tion ; the second a mild, sedate and quiet little creature of five, 
and the youngest a fair, rosy and plump little one of two, whose 
every step was a bound and whose joyous laugh exhilarated the 
listener. “You are happy, Hester, in this little group ; they are 
very lovely and health and light-hearted pleasure is expressed in 
every motion.” The praise of these objects of her affection 
brought a bright glow of satisfaction to her cheeks. “Ah,” said 
she, “if their father was but with us; while danger and death 
surround him we can not be happy.” The tears that again filled 
her eyes at this recollection dimmed the flush of affection and 
Prudy, who was most devotedly attached to her, said, with some 
indignation : “Shame upon the tyrant who has cast such a shadow 
over our happy homes ! I must say what I think, Mr. Nathaniel, 
if he is your king. What business had he to interfere with our 
rights, and to impose taxes upon us to support his unjust wars 
and wicked extravagance?” He has had bad advisers. Prudy, 
and the time will come when he will be advised of this.” “Too 
late for his good,” said she. “Our people would not have known 
their strength, perhaps, but when they once find it out they will 
no longer live subjects to England.” “Perhaps you are right,” 
said he, “and when these cruel difficulties are all settled, my good 
friend, we will yet hope to meet and discuss these questions amica- 
bly. I must now leave you, my kind sister, with my prayer that 
the blessing of Heaven may rest upon you and your dear family ; 
and you, Prudy, you, who watched over my youth, and was ever 
kind and affectionate to the wayward boy” — his voice faltered — 
“if I never meet you again on earth, may we meet in Heaven!” 
The good woman now sobbed aloud as he shook her hand, and no 
less affectionate was the farewell upon the part of the mother 
and her little family. “You will let us hear of .your safety, dear 
brother, before you leave the country ?” “If I possibly can ; I 
am not, however, without serious fears of being apprehended 
this side of Boston.” At this moment an energetic but cracked 
voice was heard, singing the chorus to one of the patriotic songs 
of the day: 


“So, one and all, my merry boys. 

Be up, and bravely doing ; 

We’ll drive the British o’er the seas. 

And fairly prove their ruin.” 

“There,” said Prudy, hastily wiping her eyes; “there’s old 
Sam Lynde, going with the market cart, over to Charlestown ; 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


93 


now, if we could but make him think you were sent by your 
brother, he never would suspect you to be a Tory, and then you 
n^ight go safely.” She went out in haste and they soon heard 
her voice at the door conferring with the old man ; ‘‘People are 
so suspicious now, you know, Sam,” said she, “that he might 
be stopped and hindered, when it is of so much importance that 
he should be there by sundown.” “Til see to it ; Til see to it,” 
said he, as he adjusted his basket, and mounted the vehicle with 
difficulty. “Well, wait a minute,” said she, and, returning, she 
told them, what they had already gathered, that it would be ex- 
pedient for him to proceed immediately under the auspices of the 
old gardener. With a most affectionate but sad adieu they 
parted, fearing what proved but too true, that they should never 
meet again on earth. This was but one of the many parting scenes 
of that eventful period ; that season of civil war, for it truly de- 
served that name, though three thousand miles of wide ocean lay 
between the contending nations. Families were divided, father 
against son and brother against brother ; kindred ties were sev- 
ered and the heavy cloud of domestic dissension hung over this 
once peaceful country. But, confident in a just cause, a band of 
noble spirits joined in a holy league to resist oppression, to rise 
above the crushing hand of tyrannical power, and force their way 
to freedom. It was a glorious resolution and gloriously did it 
triumph. 

The soft breeze of evening, laden with the sweets of spring, 
stole over the fading landscape, the light tinkle of some solitary 
cow-bell and the shrill and monotonous notes of the frogs alone 
breaking the stillness immediately around the anxious listeners 
who were awaiting the return of the old market man, which, they 
hoped, would relieve their suspense as to the safety of the fugi- 
tive. But, notwithstanding the calm repose of this scene was 
undisturbed, the busy sounds of life were heard in the distance, 
for, though the road to Boston by the highway was four miles, 
yet the distance across the marshes, which lay opposite the house, 
was but little over a mile, and the roll of the drum, with other 
martial sounds, was distinctly heard. Sad and depressing the 
thought that weighed upon the mind of the mistress of the man- 
sion ; her little ones were at rest and all was quiet around, but 
how long would it remain so? Her husband was far away, the 
time of his return uncertain, if, indeed, he would ever again re- 
turn. The enemy were becoming more and more incensed at the 
insults and aggressions of the colonists, who, in their turn, were 
burning with indignation at the tyranny of the regular troops, 
as they were called, and each day produced some new cause of 
hatred and defiance on both sides. Scarcely a ray of hope lighted 


94 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


the deep gloom of the future and, though striving to resign her- 
self and her all into the hands of Almighty Love, her heart 
throbbed with anxious fears. The good Prudy sat near, plying 
her knitting needles, which, in those days of simplicity, before 
the inventions of modern times rendered their use obsolete, or, at 
least unfashionable, were indispensable accompaniments of the fe- 
male; and, with the earnest freedom and interest which her long 
residence in the family warranted, endeavored to wile away 
the melancholy which shaded the brow of her mistress. ‘Tt seems 
but a few days,” said she, “since they were all children and I, 
though not quite so young, as blithe and happy, for never had a 
poor orphan ever found a happier home than I had. I was treated 
as one of the family and as long as I live I shall cleave to it. The 
sight of Mr. Nathaniel has brought old times to my mind and 
I can not abide the thought that the son of his father is a Tory, 
but he never had the firm judgment of his brother. Trust in the 
Lord, my mistress, and all will be right, let what may happen. It 
is a great lesson to learn but, once learned, it serves us all the 
rest of our lives. I much wonder old Sam is so long coming; 
he is not gone, usually, more than two hours.” “He is old and 
infirm, Prudy, and we need not wonder if we do not see him 
before morning; but we will watch some time longer.” And, 
changing the conversation, they conferred upon their household 
affairs and domestic matters in which the kind handmaid took 
an affecionate interest. Another hour passed and, becoming con- 
vinced that something had occurred to prevent the return of the 
old man, they retired to rest. 

“Would it have been better, mother,” said Elizabeth, “if the 
colonies had been contented to remain under the English gov- 
ernment? When I hear of these sad times of war, I am almost 
tempted to wish they had continued in quiet subjection.” “The 
exactions and encroachments of the parent country,” said Mrs. 
Wilson, “were too flagrant ; the colonists would have dishonored 
their ancestors had they borne unmoved the tyranny of the Eng- 
lish ministry, but it was long before they could divest themselves 
of the feeling of dependence upon England, the home of their 
fathers, and break the tie which had bound them to their laws 
and institutions. They submitted to many petty abuses and ex- 
tortions, they petitioned and remonstrated for the redress of more 
palpable ones, and it was not until a series of gross insults and 
unpardonable neglect of every appeal to the justice of the king 
and his ministers had aroused the indignation of the people of 
these States to a pitch that could not be controlled that they had 
recourse to arms as a last resort.” 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


95 


“And the result showed,” said Herbert, “that the God of justice 
was upon their side, and fought their battles, for, surely, there 
was never a more apparently hopeless cause than that of the united 
colonies, against their powerful oppressor.” 

“Here is a young hero,” said Susan, turning to Charles, “who 
would have joined heart and hand with his countrymen. I wish 
you had marked how he winced at your unpatriotic question, 
Elizabeth.” 

“Notwithstanding which question,” said Herbert, “I am very 
sure if our gentle sister had lived in those days she would have 
assisted energetically in melting the weights of the old clock for 
bullets, or any other measure deemed necessary by the fair enthu- 
siasts of those trying times.” 

“I am very sure, dear brother, however much I might deprecate 
the war, and its train of evils, the comforts of those dear to me 
would have been uppermost in my thoughts.” After cheerful 
conversation, they separated for the night. 


Chapter XIV 


A charm lingers over the tales of the past, 

The grey mist of time o'er their beauty is cast ; 

Its thin texture heightens the power of the spell, 

And the mystic enchantment we would not dispel. 

A mild and pleasant morning tempted the young party to a 
walk, which was rendered more delightful by anecdotes related 
by Herbert relative to the first settlement of the place, with 
which he had become familiar from his intercourse with some of 
the aged people of the town, and which caused many a laugh from 
their quaint simplicity. He pointed out to them the site of the 
first building erected for public worship, for the earliest object 
with our pious ancestors was to provide a suitable place in which 
to bow together before the God who had guided them over the 
wide waters to this pleasant home ; and the bell, which even at this 
time summoned the inhabitants to their devotions, was the same 
which was sent by kind friends from England for the service 
and ornament of the original sanctuary. It was a spot, retired 
from the village, upon the sea-shore, and, though the sacred build- 
ing had long since been removed, there was a quiet loneliness 
about it, which seemed suited to the purpose to which it had been 
dedicated. “When we return home,” said Herbert, “I will read 
you some lines founded upon an anecdote connected with the old 
church which formerly occupied this situation ; the moss-grown 
tombstone, covered with so many ancient inscriptions, which you 
remember, Elizabeth, we have so often endeavored to decipher, 
covers the remains of the good minister, who figures as one of the 
characters, but I cannot hope to inspire you with the same inter- 
est which I felt, when in my twelfth year, I first listened to the 
story from the lips of a good old dame, who is no longer among 
the living.” At the appointed time, after their return home, he 
read the following lines ; which they decided should be called 

A Tradition of the Year 1650 

Time was, when tyrant power in Britain’s Isle 
Ruled with despotic sway ; when pious men 
Were hunted like wild beasts if they should dare 
To worship God in their own way; the way 
Which they believed, in pure simplicity 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


97 


To be acceptable to Him, whose eye 
All seeing and all knowing, looks alone 
At the intent and purpose of the heart. 

With firm resolve they left their native land. 

Their home, their own green fields, and shady lawns. 
And o’er the pathless ocean took their course 
To the wild shores of a far distant clime ; 

There, no proud king or haughty priest has power, 
To mar their quiet peace and pious prayers. 

Now, happy homes and fertile fields arose 
On those far shores, and pointing to the heavens 
The tall church spire reflected the bright sun ; 

The sons of God had gathered here, but, as 
It was, in ancient time, when Satan came 
Amidst their councils, and, with wily art 
Laid schemes to tempt the holy man to sin. 

So now, among the pious race, crept in 
Some bad designing ones, whose cunning aim 
Was to seduce the good and pious heart; 

Or, failing this, to turn his holy zeal 
To ridicule; to watch for some weak spot; 

For, who, in this imperfect world of ours 
Is free from imperfection; and, when found 
With jeering mockery, to cause him shame. 

In a small village dwelt a good old man 
Beloved and honored for his kindly heart; 

Zealous in prayer, in duty prompt and true ; 

With guileless life, and firm and holy faith. 

The peaceful tenour of his life passed on ; 

The Sexton of the parish, his white hairs 
Were reverenced by the simple pious flock. 

To whom his services were duly paid. 

Save by some graceless ones, who long had made 
The kind old man the butt of many a joke; 

But, as we often mark, the wicked jest 
Would harmlessly rebound from its rude aim 
And wound the miscreant who had sped the bolt. 
’Twas on a windy, dark and stormy night 
That the old sexton rose from his warm hearth 
To brave the old and dreary autumn rain ; 

For, on each night, at nine, the old church bell 
Was rung, with the intent that all should then 
Go to their quiet rest; that peaceful sleep 
Might be the portion of each weary frame 
Till morn should rouse them to their daily toil. 


98 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Those were the days when superstition’s power 
Was felt by all; none from its gloomy chains 
Were free ; the grave divine and the wise sage 
Alike confessed its sway, its potent rule ; 

And, if dark fears of unknown ill had power 
To shake the nerves of learned ministers, 

We need not wonder if our worthy friend 
Was not exempt from this besetting ill. 

It was a night, he thought, when wicked fiends 
Would triumph in the mischief they might cause; 

And, though his faith in the Almighty power 
To guard his steps, was all unshaken still. 

Yet dismal fears and dark foreboding thought, 

Would rush, unbidden, thro’ his beating heart. 

The kind old dame shared in his fears of ill, 

And, as with care, she wrapped about his neck 
The warm and woolly comforter, with words 
Of warning kind, she urged his quick return. 

He sallied forth, and onward bent his way 
To the lone church, which stood so near the shore 
That the rude waves on such a night as this 
Would almost dash their spray upon its side ; 

The wild wind roared amongst the woods, and seemed 
Contending with the loud and deafening surge. 

While the pale rays, which from his lantern gleamed 
But served to show the black and muddy pools 
That filled the road. Onward the good man strode. 
And the same courage, summoned to his aid 
Would have been lauded in the warrior bold. 

Slowly the ponderous key turned in the bolt; 

Through the broad aisle, he moved, with cautious tread. 
Starting at the dull echo of his steps. 

But, as he raised the light to seize the rope, 

Its beams shone full upon the sacred desk; 

What fearful sight appalled his shuddering gaze ! 

A Gorgon’s head usurped the holy place. 

Which, to his terror-stricken mind appeared 
The embodied form of Lucifer himself ! 

He stopped not to encounter the foul fiend. 

But, rushing forth, stayed not his course, until 
Safe landed at the reverened pastor’s door. 

Great was the wonder, strong was the dismay 
With which the pious man heard the dark tale : 

But, with the conscious rectitude of truth. 

He seized the Holy Book, with firm resolve 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


99 


That the foul spirit should no longer hold 
Usurped dominion o’er that hallowed spot. 

Torrents of rain descending, seemed to warn 
The zealous pair from the encounter rash, 

Still, strong in faithful confidence, they gained 
The fatal spot, when, with his talisman 
Uplifted, uttering words of mighty power. 

The pious pastor, with firm step and slow 
Approached the dreaded form, though, strange to tell. 
The wicked Tempter seemed to stand his ground, 
Nearer and nearer they advance, and then 
Ascend the stairs, armed for the conflict dire. 

But, now, the shameless mockery unveiled 
Shows but the head and horns of an old sheep, 

A moment’s pause, and, then a pleasant smile 
Illum’ed the good man’s face, as he addressed 
The indignant sexton in a kindly tone. 

‘‘We have been weakly credulous, my friend, 

“Our foolish fears have stolen our better sense, 

“ ’Tis the vile trick of some rude infidel ; 

“But, we will turn his bad intent to good, 

“And learn a lesson from this seeming ill. 
“Henceforth, we will not suffer coward fear 
“To thwart our judgment, or disturb our peace.” 

So saying, with strong arm, he drew away 
The unseemly object; and, with ready hand 
The bell was rung by the old servitor ; 

And as they parted, each to his own home. 

With mild and gentle tone, the pastor said, 

“Do not forget, my good old friend, tonight, 

“Ere you lie down upon your peaceful bed, 

“To offer to our God, the prayer of faith, 

“That He would turn the erring mind from sin.” 
The morn arose, and the dark clouds dispersed. 
Before the fresh and health inspiring gale. 

When the malicious jester made his way 
Towards the old church, to mark what the effect 
Had been, of his vile mockery; whether 
His trick had been discovered, or, unseen 
By the old man, the foul caricature 
Still occupied the holy preacher’s desk. 

The beast he rode was vicious as himself. 

For, as he turned the angle of the wall 
From the highroad, upon the level green. 

Scared by some object, which beset his path. 


100 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


The fiery steed reared high, then plunging down 
Threw his unwary master to the ground. 

’Twas the grim object, which, with cunning skill, 

He had prepared for the good Sexton’s harm, 

And, which, on that dark night, the pious pair 
Had drawn away, and thrown beside the wall. 

With many a deep and heavy groan, he lay. 

Till guided by the same wise Providence 

The kind old man ’gainst whom the plot was laid. 

Came to his rescue, and, with kindly care. 

Soothed his distress, and brought him timely aid. 

“I hope your memory is stored with many of these ‘legends of 
the days of yore,’ ” said Mary, “and that you will find leisure to 
arrange them in the same interesting form.” “It will be a power- 
ful inducement to attempt it, my dear cousin, if it will interest 
you.” 


Chapter XV 


On the succeeding evening Herbert proceeded to read to the 
assembled listeners the continuation of the reminiscences of the 
times of the American Revolution. 

While the heart of many a patriotic American was throbbing 
with indignation and anxiety, and the countenances of many a 
mother, wife, daughter or sister was pale with watching and 
tears, the face of nature was delightful and undisturbed. The 
soft breezes were rich with the perfume of flowers and shrubs, the 
verdant fields glittered with the dew, the sweet melody of birds 
and hum of insects enlivened the scene, while the cattle, with 
measured steps, were pacing th^ accustomed path, toward their 
green pasture. With the early dawn the old marketman had 
returned, and brought stirring news. The roads, he said, were 
filled with soldiers, and tents were pitched in every convenient 
place ; they would permit no provisions to be carried into Boston, 
and had even succeeded in carrying off the cattle which were pas- 
tured on the islands in the harbor, so that it was supposed that 
the British troops were likely to have much difficulty in procuring 
food. ‘‘Our troops are ready and brave enough,” said he, ‘‘if they 
be not trained for service, and, what if their muskets be of all 
sizes and shapes, the main thing is to know how to use them, 
which, ril warrant they do.” They had proceeded without any 
interruption, he said, until they had crossed Malden Bridge, when 
they were stopped by a small party of soldiers, who, after some 
questions, permitted him to go on, but refused to let the gentle- 
man pass until they received further orders from their com- 
mander ; that he had waited until they applied to him, who “luck- 
ily,” said the old man, “proved to be General Knox, and you may 
be sure that he would see that any friend of Captain B.’s had 
his rights, so, after some talk apart, he not only allowed him to 
proceed, but sent a man with him, that he might not be again 
stopped, and I saw him depart, after he had shaken hands with 
me, and left this piece of money with me, like a gentleman as he 
is.” He proceeded to say, that as it was late before he concluded 
his business, he had stopped at the house of an old acquaintance, 
near the Bridge. Thus relieved of their anxiety, they could now 
listen with interest, to the details of old Sam. “The regulars will 
be starved out, by and by,” said he, “if they don’t get scared to 
death first. They say that three of their generals, as they were 
walking down Beacon Hill, the other night, heard strange noises 


102 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


over their heads, which they supposed to be some kind of airguns, 
fired at them by the Yankee rebels, as they called them, and took 
to their heels with such expedition that they nearly fell headlong ; 
but, after all,” said he, with an explosion of great glee, “it was 
only the humming of beetles, and if they run for such imagina- 
tions, what will they do when they stand, face to face, with our 
brave boys ? And, there is a plan afoot, which will soon settle the 
business; it is to erect works on the hill in Charlestown, which 
overlooks Boston, so that our men can fire in among them.” He 
then proceeded to say that the British would not permit the in- 
habitants of Boston to leave the town, or hold any communication 
with their friends ; that it was said reinforcements from England 
were daily expected, and that the Americans were anxious to 
strike some bold stroke, before their arrival. More than all, he re- 
ported, that George Washington, of Virginia, was appointed Com- 
mander in Chief of the American Armies, “and a noble com- 
mander it is said he will make, being an old soldier, and, that it 
will not be long before he will be before Boston.” The heart of 
the affectionate mother throbbed with anxiety at these tidings. 
Situated as they were, in the very seat of contention, what would 
be the result if the enemy were victorious, and succeeded in dis- 
persing her countrymen, and what would become of her, and her 
helpless little family? Anticipating such an emergency, her hus- 
band, in his last letter, had directed her to leave their home, and, 
with her little girls, retire to her native place, which was about 
forty miles in the interior, there to await his return, or the in- 
dications of Providence. With a heavy heart, after taking the 
advice of the good Prudy, who, with disinterested affection, of- 
fered to stay at the mansion as long as it was safe, she determined 
that the crisis which her husband had foreseen, had now arrived, 
and that she would follow his directions. “If,” said her faithful 
domestic, “it comes to the worst, Sam and I can shut up the house, 
turn out the cattle, and retire over the hill to his sister’s, where we 
shall be safe, but, it would not do for 3^ou, with these little ones, 
to run such a risk. You can now go with safety in the old chaise ; 
which is roomy enough to hold considerable, and, you will not be 
afraid to drive the horse, who, tho’ not swift, is sure.” 

Having come to this resolution, no time was to be lost, and they 
immediately commenced preparations for the journey. 

The morning arrived when she must bid farewell to the scene 
of so much peace and quiet domestic joy, perhaps never again to 
see it, for she could not conceal from herself that fire and sword 
were the accompaniments of modern warfare; but her children, 
delighted at the journey, would not suffer a shade to linger upon 
her brow, and Prudy, amidst smiles and tears, uttered her affec- 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


103 


tionate adieu, echoed by Sam. The day was beautiful, and the 
wild enthusiasm of her companions prevented her indulgence in 
melancholy reflections, while the road led them away from the 
scenes of tumult and confusion, and she trusted they might escape 
observation. She was not disappointed; night brought them to 
the horne of her youth, where a joyous welcome awaited them, 
and until better times, a peaceful retreat. 

“And now,” said Mrs. Wilson, “I must leave my farther tale 
untold. Perhaps at some future time I may continue it, and I 
think it will interest you, as the incidents are connected with your 
family.” “I had hoped, mother,” said Charles, that you would tell 
us about Bunker Hill.” “I should not be a good historian, my 
son, in tales of war and bloodshed. Charlestown was burned by 
the British, as you know, but their devastations stopped there, at 
that time, and our old mansion was left unharmed and safe, till 
such time as its owners could return to its peaceful shades.” 
“And did the Tory uncle never return to America?” “He did 
not ; he reached England in safety, but did not live long after 
that event. I will relate one little circumstance, Charles, which 
happened at this time. There was a poor widow, who occupied a 
small house in Charlestown, which was destroyed during the con- 
flagration, and which comprised the whole of her fortune. She 
had contrived to support herself and two children by her daily 
exertions, but was now left destitute indeed. With the hope of 
assistance from some friends, in an adjoining town, she took her 
departure from the scene of destruction, carrying one child in 
her arms, while the other, an active little boy of four years, closely 
followed her footsteps. As he trudged along and employed the 
little staff with which his mother had provided him, in tracing 
lines in the road, he struck something which, by its brightness, at- 
tracted his attention. Picking it up and delighted with his prize, 
he soon overtook his mother and showed her a ring, the value of 
which was evident by its costly diamond, and the initials and 
cypher upon the inside. The good woman, rather perplexed than 
pleased with this circumstance, and tired with her walk, sat down 
with her children upon some timber to deliberate upon what she 
should do with her acquisition. Two gentlemen, whose dress an- 
nounced them to be British officers, were walking slowly by, and 
as they passed, she heard one say, Tt must have been near this 
spot. It was a last memento, and the loss is to me irreparable.’ 
Thinking it possible this observation might refer to the ring, she 
immediately addressed them, and related the circumstance of her 
son’s finding it. It was directly identified, and claimed by the of- 
ficer, who had made the remark which had attracted her atten- 
tion. He had discovered his loss, and was then retracing his steps. 


104 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


though almost hopeless of recovering his treasure. He was a 
nobleman of high rank in the army, and, after a few words of in- 
quiry, she received not only present assistance, but assurance that 
her son should never want a friend. The promise was faithfully 
fulfilled, and through the assistance of their kind benefactor, he 
received an education, which has enabled him to take a high stand 
in his profession, which was that of a clergyman, and he is now 
a much respected minister in this vicinity.” 


Chapter XVI 


’Midst the thorns are fragrant roses, 

Sunbeams ’midst the shifting clouds. 

Many days of open weather now intervened, when winter 
appeared to meditate resigning his sovereignty. The snow dis- 
appeared from the hills which surrounded their pleasant retreat, 
little sunny nooks were visible where the early violet might shel- 
ter, and the sands on the seashore were becoming bright and 
sparkling. Delightful as were these indications of spring, the 
inmates of Mrs. Wilson’s abode were not inclined to wish for its 
rapid approach. The winter had not only been pleasantly, but 
they all felt, profitably, spent, that seed had been sown which 
might, by careful culture, produce an abundant harvest. The 
joyous and lively spirits of Susan still retained all their buoyancy 
and she joined them on the sands where they were watching the 
white sails of the vessels as they were leaving the harbor, as the 
sun shone full upon them. 

“They are leaving their homes,” said Elizabeth, “to cross that 
ocean, which, though now so serene, we have seen under such 
different aspects.” “And,” said Herbert, “they are, no doubt, 
elated with the pleasant auspices under which they commence 
their voyage. Sailors are a superstitious race ; they dread to 
leave their port under a lowering sky ; and it is almost impossible 
to induce them to embark on Friday. You will frequently see 
them on a land-cruise, as they call it, to overhaul the log-book of 
the redoubtable Moll Pitcher, or some old fortune teller, relative 
to the success of their voyage, the constancy of their sweethearts, 
etc., and the wise old lady prognosticates so much to their satis- 
faction that they return in great glee, after leaving with her a 
goodly portion of their well-filled purses.” “It is surely a kind 
Providence,” said Mary, “which hides from us the events of fu- 
turity. How wretched would be every intervening moment were 
we certain of the time of some great calamity !” 

“True, Mary,” said Herbert, “and there are many who, with- 
out this knowledge, suffer a thousand deaths in fearing one. I 
refer to those who are ever anticipating evil, who prophesy de- 
stroying frost in every cold wind and blight or blasting mildew 
in the warm sun or refreshing rain.” “I am decidedly of the 
opinion,” said Susan, “that such persons are worse in society than 
drones in a hive, for the idle person generally injures himself 


io6 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


more than any one else, but the discontented one makes others 
wretched by imparting to them a portion of his bitterness. It 
gives me the fidgets to hear poor Mrs. Flagg complain of this 
wicked world, protesting that everybody is governed by selfish 
motives and, shaking her head, declare that there is no such thing 
as happiness on earth, and yet she enjoys, or seems to enjoy, to 
perfection a good cup of tea and a warm cake.” 

‘‘We are too young, as yet, my cousin,” said Herbert, “and have 
seen too few of the trials of life to controvert, positively, the good 
woman’s assertion, but, when we look around us and see so much 
beauty, so much to love and admire, we may be sure that our 
Creator did not place us here to be miserable.” 

“Now for a race, Charles,” said Susan ; “I shall be at the gate 
first.” 

They met Mrs. Wilson at the door and she greeted them with 
joyful news ; a letter had arrived from their parents. The health 
of their father had so much improved that he wrote of speedy 
return and rejoiced in the happiness so apparent in the letters of 
his children. There was but one shadow to this pleasant news, 
the breaking up of their winter enjoyments, but Herbert re- 
minded them that at any rate his vacation was nearly at an end ; 
that they could look back upon this Winter in Retirement with 
almost unalloyed pleasure and forward with the cheering hope of 
future joyous meetings ; also with the certainty that, by the help 
of Providence, the treasures stored in their minds through this, 
at first, dreaded season, would prove precious and available in all 
the varying events of their lives. “We will improA^e the time yet 
left us and I will read you this evening some lines written by a 
lady born in this town.” 


THE OLD HOME 

speed onward, Time! thy dark wings leave 
Deep traces on the path they cleave ! 

Speed onward ! for the goal is near. 
Backward I mark thy swift career. 

And through the hazy past mine eye 
Dwells on the scenes of infancy ; 

For, bright and clear its visions seem. 

And sweet, in Memory’s glowing dream. 
The broad Atlantic’s waves are bright 
Where first my eyes beheld the light ; 
The broad Atlantic’s shores are fair 
Where first I breathed my native air ; 
They boast of clear Italian skies ; 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


107 


I’ve seen the glorious sun arise 
From out his sparkling ocean-bed, 

And, o’er my home, his splendors shed. 

His beams illumined the swelling sails 
That caught the scented morning gales ; 

Ne’er were Italian skies more fair 
Than rested o’er my old Home there. 

Thy rocky cliffs, Nahant, gleamed bright 
As morning poured her golden light ; 

And silvery streams of whiteness broke 
From the rough seams of old Egg Rock ; 

Inland arose, ’midst foliage gay. 

The Lover’s Leap, with forehead grey ; 

With haughty front. High Rock would seek 
To court the sun’s first rising beam. 

And sheltered homes, and meadows rare. 

Soon caught the glittering radiance there. 

The early sunlight never shone 
On brighter than my own old Home. 

And romance spread her witching dream 
O’er shore and wood and rippling stream. 

For here, ’twas said, the pirate Kidd 
His ill-got store of treasure hid ; 

Amidst a wild and craggy waste. 

Where straggling pines their shadows cast, 

A rocky Cavern, dark and deep. 

Stretched inward from its opening steep ; 

And there, ’twas told, foul deeds were wrought, 
And gold concealed, by murder bought. 

Till, at the Dungeon’s gloomy name 
The blood in quicker currents came. 

Weird Superstition spread her wing 
Of sombre shade, o’er dell and spring; 

Once, powers of ill seemed leagued, to bind 
In clouds of mist, the human mind ; 

Dread scenes ensued, and but the name 
Of Witchcraft roused the smouldering flame. 
The whirlwind spent its mightiest force 
On Salem’s heights, but in its course 
Its withering breath defiled the scene 
Which else would more like Eden seem. 

The haze of long past years alone 
Casts shadows o’er my own old Home. 


io8 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


We boast, too, of a Sybil’s fame. 

Though graced with but a homely name, 

But never Sybil had more power, 

And Sybil ne’er more honors bore ; 

No horrid rites she tried to show 
A prophet’s skill, no charms to know. 

No Sybil of old Rome was she 
To give the Books of Destiny ; 

She knew no Book ; but could enthrall 
With magic skill the minds of all. 

And some may live who once have known 
The Sybil of my own old Home. 

Here patriot hearts and patriot hands 
Were joined to break Oppression’s bands ; 

Our pleasant homes sent forth their best 
To fight, at Freedom’s high behest ; 

We claim the Puritan’s high birth ; 

Our fathers left their native hearth. 

Their sons on Freedom’s land to rear. 

Who, tyrant despots need not fear ; 

Where they might truly worship God 
Without a Bishop’s mitred rod ; 

And tyrant power has ne’er been known 
To hover round my own old Home. 

Speed onward, Time! while life remains 
And Memory her powxr retains, 

My own old Home ! Fll cherish thee 
Amidst the dreams of infancy ; 

The mists of age may gather round ; 

The silver cord may be unbound; 

Speed onward, Time! for death alone 
Can dim the thought of my old Home. 

'Though the local scenery of Lynn,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not 
essentially changed since this was written, many of its manners 
and customs are. The good old Puritan days have somewhat 
gone by ; but it is pleasant to read something which refers to the 
time when they were reverenced and appreciated.” 


Chapter XVII 


Peaceful and calm as Sabbath’s holy eve. 

On the ensuing Sabbath evening the conversation turned upon 
the public services of the day, which were rendered interesting to 
Charles, as well as the others, by their reference to the ancient 
history of Palestine. “There is now left,” said Herbert, “but the 
dust and ruins of these celebrated countries of antiquity. Were 
it not for these, even yet, splendid mementoes of the former great- 
ness of ancient Syria, we should be lost in wonder and credulity 
when we contrast the history of its past grandeur with the ac- 
counts of modern travelers. How puny do the works of our 
days of boasted superiority appear, compared with the colossal 
ruins of Balbec and Palmyra, where the stones of which their 
mighty edifices were composed would seem to require the 
strength of giants, or such machinery as the mechanism of these 
times can hardly imagine, to place them in their appointed sit- 
uation. The plains of Syria, from the earliest records of time, 
have been the theatre on which the most interesting scenes have 
been performed. Embattled legions have here fought to the 
death, and the footsteps of the messengers of peace on earth, 
preceded by those of their Divine Master, have pressed the fa- 
vored soil. Here, too, the wild fanaticism of the Crusades rose to 
its climax, here the brave, but imprudent and improvident Richard 
of England, and the generous, noble-hearted Saladin figured in 
their brief careers. These scenes possess an indescribable charm 
for the Christian, while they present inexhaustible themes for po- 
etry and romance.” “Your enthusiasm, dear Herbert,” said Eliz- 
abeth, “would lead us to suppose that you, too, had taken them 
for a theme ; do not deny us the pleasure of profiting by the in- 
spiration.” “I will not,” said he, “though I have only attempted 
a paraphrase of an incident related in the Scriptures.” 

’Twas noon; on Syria’s sandy plains 
The scorching sun pours down his beams : 

Where shall the weary traveler rest ? 

Where shall he slake his burning thirst ? 

Far in the hazy distance seen, 

Rises a grove of palm trees green. 

And, to the near approach displays 
To the enraptured wanderer’s gaze 


no 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


A sweet retreat, whose verdure bright 
And fountains cool and shaded light 
Would seem to promise that no care 
Or sorrowing heart could linger there. 
Vain thought! for earth contains no spot 
Where sin or sorrow enters not. 

Mistaken dream ! a heaven of bliss 
Alone bestows a gift like this. 

Amidst these shades a palace rose ; 

A proud and stately front it shows ; 

Around, ’tis graced with gardens fair. 
Delightful perfumes fill the air ; 

Sweet music cheers the passing day, 
Delicious waters cast their spray ; 

And, when the soft and gentle breeze 
Of peaceful twilight stirs the trees, 

The bird of night, with plaintive strains 
Soothes to repose and pleasant dreams. 

But in this spot, so calm and sweet. 

There dwelt sad hearts and sorrows deep ; 
The Syrian Captain there abode, 

Naanian, favorite of his lord; 

Riches surround the mighty Chief ; 

Do they avert a dreaded grief? 

Slaves bow before his slightest word. 

And splendor decks his plenteous board ; 
Ah I sad relief for anxious care. 

Ah ! poor resort against despair. 

With saddened brow the warrior stalks 
Through stately halls and sheltered walks. 
The leper’s curse is on him fixed ; 

With his best blood the plague is mixed. 
And fleeting Time, he knows, full sure. 
Will bring fresh misery to endure. 

No hope for him ; each rising morn 
Still sees his heart with anguish torn, 
While each returning hour for sleep 
But marks his hour for torture deep. 

Still, one there is to share his grief 
If sympathy could bring relief ; 

Behind those latticed windows dwells 
A form whose heart with sorrow swells; 
The wife ; whose best affections twine 
Around his love; as twines the vine 
Round some supporting prop or power 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


III 


That shields it in the dangerous hour. 

Oh ! not for them the trusting prayer, 
That sure resource against despair ; 

Thine idol gods are powerless now, 

In vain to them, the knee they bow. 

But, as the pious man of old 
Obtained, by intercession bold, 

A promise, that, if ten were found 
Within the fated city’s bound. 

Who worshiped God with zeal and truth, 
They should avert the dreaded wrath. 

So, now, the faith of one restored 
To health and strength the Syrian Lord, 
Amidst the slaves, a Hebrew maid. 
Obedience to her mistress paid. 

And, sympathizing with her woe. 

Sought means to save the dreaded blow; 
A holy prophet dwelt, she told. 

Where rose Samaria’s turrets bold; 

That God, to him, had given the power 
This fatal leprosy to cure. 

Beneath an Olive’s spreading shade. 

The holy prophet knelt and prayed ; 

The leper, with his pompous train. 
Assistance asks, nor asks in vain ; 

“Go wash in Jordan’s sacred stream,” 

The prophet said, “Wash and be clean.” 
With proud disdain, the Syrian turned; 
Such simple means his nature spurned; 
Some mighty deed, he proudly thought, 
Was needful, when his cure was wrought, 
“Are not our Syrian streams,” he said, 
“Better than Jordan’s vaunted tide ? 

“Is not Arbana’s silver wave, 

“Or Pharphar’s flood, fit place to lave?” 
But, yielding to affection’s prayer 
The haughty leper sought the shore; 
Where Jordan’s swelling waters flowed. 
And bathed him in the healing flood; 
Then, rising from the holy stream. 

No loathsome leprosy is seen; 

No tainted blood his system knows. 

But, pure the healthful current flows; 

No sickly scales his flesh deform. 


II2 


A WINTER IN RETIREMENT 


Like the fair child’s, now soft and warm, 

With joyful heart, and thankful praise 
To Israel’s God, he lifts his eyes ; 

“There is no God, but Israel’s God 
The wondering train repeat the word. 

’Twas eve; on Syria’s sandy plains 
The scorching sun no longer beams; 

Athwart the weary traveler’s brow 
The chilling night-wind passes now ; 

The prowling thief, with murderous steel 
Each sandy hillock may conceal ; 

Where shall the wanderer find repose? 

How shall he ’scape his secret foes? 

On; pilgrim, on; yon glimmering light 
That, through the distance, greets thy sight. 

Is the bright beacon-ray to guide 
Thy toiling footsteps to its side ; 

Not now does sorrow’s gloomy cloud 
That lovely spot in darkness shroud; 

No rites, unholy, now are there; 

No tainted incense fills the air; 

On; pilgrim, on; for Israel’s God 
Is worshiped there, by Syria’s lord ; 

And the rich mercies he receives 
With bounteous hand he freely gives. 

And now that our “Winter in Retirement” has drawn to a 
close, let us hope that the lesson we have tried to inculcate, that 
a life of excitement, and scenes of continued gayety are not nec- 
essary for the happiness of the young, may not be unheeded by 
those for whose benefit it is written. Life is too precious, too 
priceless a gift from our Father in heaven for part of its hours 
to be spent in trifling amusements, part in resting after their 
fatigue, and part in sad reflections upon their inutility. May this 
little volume, through His blessing, carry an antidote for these 
evils, and lead our youth to trv its efficacy. 

Autumn drew near; and, with her magic brush 
Had touched the landscape ; on the mountain’s slope. 

Bright tints were mingling with the evergreens 
Crowning its heights ; and, as the freshening breeze 
Swept onward, in its joyous course it bore 
The many colored leaves, the forest’s pride. 

Some few were green, and to the thoughtful mind 


SCATTERED LEAVES 


II3 


Recalled the youthful spring, in verdure rich; 

Others appeared, touched with bright summer’s ray, 
And mingled with the glowing heaps, bring back. 

The sunny days of bright July ; but more 
Displayed deep crimson hues, or, orange, gay. 

Or golden yellow; or, perchance, laid clothed 
In sombre garb — 

I sought, long time, 

A title for my Book ; Leaves there are here 
Of Thought and Memory; some fresh like youth. 

And many tinged with Autumn’s varying shades ; 
While, over all, a brightening light is cast, 

The light of Hope. 




1 / 




I 




% 


\ 


$ 


# 


I 


I 


» 


t 


I 


I 


/ 


I • 



J 


«.• ' 

I 



u . 


' < ' '. 'J' ' 1 X ' < I *■* A I ‘ 

Uglpr '■ ; / ■ 

" ’ - : : ’ 

‘•» ■ .<' \,.i,..'y •, ■ ' ,. _,; ,'*** '’. '[ 





fe.: M:;^S ' :: v": :, 



,. • ' ' ■ •' » /V'.V-' 




,-...T:ra*, ,,•’, ■ . . »'\h v-a-. .^r v *'/'•'• ■,. . v, -f.. 

■'■A'vvw'v.''': ■■ lx- 


' •• ,« 1 f. 




» /•■,.• V.S i, .; 1 



-*fc‘ *, ' ' * V f V ,‘4\ , I ►' (• 11 I ^ • - • • . • ^ 

JMf \* ' ' . /•" -V^ i * ♦ ■' • ' 

fsSy ‘ • V f,'/ f! 

i ,' S^’K ■' ■ ” / * ‘ . 

, s , I ■ ' - ' -]■. . ^ 

,;’L0- r ^''. V, * . . ' . . . (I* ' 4> . ' < ^ • 




X-, ■ 


.( 


•L 


':" ■ 'v > ■ *' ' ' '■ 


Yi< 


‘I'HI 


. -.. * v*:^i 




'■ -. .(••,'■. , , t yi. ■• 


> . ,«,%• « -• . V '’r 


8 w £'•■.■■<' ?■■■ •.■■.!-'-.•■■■ ;:',■. f, ■ :..; v.jfes ^t' ' ^ 

iviv ..: ■ , '■•. V' ■.’• ■. , 'y, ■ ' .:'> ^ ■ 


i<, ' ■■ ■ ■ V ■■■ •' /' ,■'■»’/■ ' 


v^'.'' . "/ J"' ■ ■■ ■ ■ 4 i ■ '■'., \ 

' '•' '. • >*^*4 • / -• 


.. ) 


- ./, -., .., ,y., .V. .. ry.,; »' . . 

'i'jyfi^ . iv» ■* ' ' ^», . j V-* • I 

'«V^ ...'■/ ■•- . .'. •• , ^ ‘ 


VY 


If. 




;r.' 


'V'‘ ’• ■ . ^ , . •■ • . , ■ I • 


■ ,«'<■ -■ ♦ .,.• . , ,, '. I 

* ;.v ,'**. - 










r r. ;A 


:,y-^ 


' • +■:'* •.*«', ^ 

V, Tr-flf^t .'. t.;-. 

V. # . ’ ' r . w *M ^ . . 





' t} 


>. 9- 




•-, / 


■ I- k u 1 • .J 


♦V 






\ /. '■-'/'yAr „. 

, Vvkf' ..'' 'V'''y- V ' — 

2:^^' 4 , 






\ ' . 





; 











\ 






, '.^k- 


\ 


'-->* ; ?f .-r. .’S^E^H*.;.^ 





dr- 


<S i'f.^'' 


rv-»*. 

¥)S/ 


.:.^n^.vv . • ■•..•. ‘ • ; v.'/'; ^ x- 'v. 

■ . '■^^•':- - . • K - v 

- ry^[ . - '• V ^ J - 

’: -rivfe rV-V'^d’/^ / 
.'■':*V<V'.-.-;.- V- -'i* • Vv ,r-v^ -.■■ • / 

... ,1^.-:%'- .•; • -;r\ky:r. :\rJJ. -: • v.- 











T 


i- 


- :sm&y h - ■ 

r'M-' . -•' - - ^ ' . .-; =^'- . ' ^ { ,; 


- 




im^- 


- -.-s? 


‘iv^ 



•'-*• .^7 • ■* • 

''.%■ '■ 


W- 


. 

.-iV v.« ?<, 


i •# \V;k';'^;-.' ;:" 7 r -yyr^ - '- 

W ^ rr :r A. 




•7 - v; 


•v.^ 




•: V 


/>.' /, . 


■ :*'. ■ 


t*. 


iH; 




'V >“! 


T-Va' 




III 






V 


••sy. 












./• 


»';v--.v.-. 


/».-- 












•«. 










j4'' 


.<.V 






Z-i' I 








i:.-r? 




/ X 

J 


J, 




\ 


\ y 




:iw 






7i 








■ ; - J- TtiJr. 


r4. 


















V • . 




f 






^ \\i-. 




■' ■ 1 




y*. 








-Vt . 




ro'-v: 


.45* 


;■«- 


f^S 




i?-.; 


''iT^ i . .,- 




\- 




,^r 








’■.4' 


. » ; 


fcrf '■ V .-^f? 


[y - i - ' * * ^ . 




Tt ^ • • > ^ ^ • .■ 


■■•i. 


A'A- 


"rf 


•> < 




V:&3 






A , 










V- 


s. 




. .i -y 'A 


.•y 


-•VilT' 

■ 

W-- 




;. .r-t'*.^ 


»* •t’'* 

a? 


r#' 


.•?%. 


'A 


A V 




. ' '-i:‘^i^'.Vd 


A 








